


The Price Of Living Free

by Kaz_Langston



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Angst, Biphobia, Bisexual Alec Hardy, Bisexual Paul Coates, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Physical Abuse, Protective Alec Hardy, Slow Burn, So much angst, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 43,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22441834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaz_Langston/pseuds/Kaz_Langston
Summary: Paul Coates, Broadchurch vicar, returns to his (rich, miserable) roots to give his father another chance. Unfortunately some people never change, and after a while the cracks start to show.Fortunately Alec Hardy's persistence means things might just turn out ok in the end.Slightly AU as it ignores / writes an alternative S3.8.
Relationships: Alec Hardy & Ellie Miller, Paul Coates & Alec Hardy, Paul Coates/Alec Hardy
Comments: 48
Kudos: 113





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have been urged on in this endeavour by Zeph and EJ, among others, who have shrieked enthusiastically at every morsel I've fed them of this after I started with the vague concept that 'Paul would look good in a nice suit'.
> 
> This has been described as "Vicar to damsel to roommate to husband au".

**Present day**

Hardy hears it in the butchers, in the chemist, in the post office. Did you hear about the vicar? He's gone on a mission to Africa. Did you hear about the vicar? He's had a breakdown and ended up in a mental hospital. Did you hear about Paul? He's been arrested, given up the church to work in finance, been fired for drinking the church wine.

He's sick of the rumors, the small town pettiness of it all, and wishes he knows the truth so he could tell them once and for all and they can finally move on to something else. The man's probably just disillusioned; maybe he really has gone to work in finance.

He ignores them, and after a few weeks they die down, as much as anything can do in a town as small as Broadchurch, only resurfacing occasionally when life slows to a crawl.

When the new vicar, a short and dark haired woman who's pretty in a subtle sort of a way, drops by the station one day to introduce herself, Hardy's somewhat taken aback. Coates never did anything like that. But then, he'd been well settled by the time Hardy arrived bitter and ill and filled to the brim with secrets, so there had been no real reason for him to visit the station, at least until he'd been pulled in as a suspect in Danny's murder.

Reverend Caroline Stevenson has a similar air about her to the previous vicar, and Hardy suspects it's something they teach in vicar college, or whatever it is that qualifies someone to be a vicar. Somehow her calming, reassuring facade sets his teeth on edge, though it had never done so with Paul, and perhaps some amount of sharpness in the younger man had kept it from being overbearing.

Once she's gone, he leans against the column beside Miller's desk. He's slightly surprised the paint hasn't worn through at shoulder and arse level by now, given his habits. "What did y'think of that, then?"

"She's nice. Warm. I like her."

"Think people are going to stop talking about Coates now?"

"Him leaving was the biggest thing to happen in Broadchurch since..." Well, they both know _since_ , but she fumbles into "...for ages."

He makes a noncommittal noise.

"People keep on at me asking, as if I know anything! I don't keep track of all the bloody men that leave Broadchurch." Only Joe.

"No one's asked me that." He's mildly affronted.

"Well, no, they wouldn't, would they?" She frowns. "Anyway, he's got a right to a private life."

"Mhm."

"Told me he's gone back to be with his dad, the man's probably in his sixties by now and needs a bit of looking after."

And it's curious, finally hearing a part of the truth. He'd always got the impression that Paul was an orphan, or as good as - something unsaid behind his eyes when they'd briefly spoken about parents in the course of a case, and hinted at in his treatment of the Latimers, though there had been a tightness around his mouth that had settled in then and never really left.

Hardy thinks of Mark, and Danny; of bruises; of cold beaches and tall cliffs.

She looks at him expectantly, but his mind is already elsewhere as he heads towards his office. "Thanks, Miller."

Late that night Hardy lies awake in bed, thinking about Paul and his insomnia, and about family. There doesn't seem to be anyone who actually cares where Paul has gone, aside from people using it for cheap gossip. Lying there in the dark Hardy tells himself that if he dropped off the map there would be people who care enough about him to worry. He thinks back to the time when he left Tess and Daisy behind and found a new life for himself, and no one - bar his bloody cardiologist - asked after him. It would have been nice to feel that someone had thought about him, someone had given half a damn, had noticed he'd gone.

Now, though, he knows Daisy would care, and Ellie, and maybe even Tess if he was gone long enough, though it might be the loss of the alimony rather than any lingering fondness. But Paul... Paul has no one. And that's not right.

Daisy's at university, Broadchurch is quiet with nothing more exciting than the odd drug deal, particularly now it's autumn and the tourists have abandoned the town. So Alec Hardy begins to research.

He speaks to the few parishioners he knows attend the church, and there's not much there but at least between that and what he's heard from Miller it's a start.

"Went back to see his dad, he said. Not seen him in fifteen years! Can you imagine!"

"Think he grew up near the Cotswolds? Somewhere nice like that."

"His last sermon was just so lovely. He talked about forgiveness and family, brought a tear to my eye, I tell you."

He has to be a little careful - without the man being suspected of a crime, as much as the town gossip would have everyone believe he was responsible for all manner of things, there's no legitimate access to most of the systems he would normally use. Still, there are voting registers and tax records that are less difficult to get hold of when you know the right people.

With the scraps he's found and the help of a few contacts, it takes him six weeks of idle Saturday afternoons over cups of tea to track Paul down to an address in a small Gloucestershire village.

**Paul's past - six months ago**

"As many of you know, this is my last service here in Broadchurch. I've been here six years and it has been a truly wonderful experience, and I thank you all for making me so welcome here. I'm sure you will be just as kind to Reverend Caroline when she takes over in a few weeks, and to Reverend John who'll be covering in the meantime."

Paul paused, swallowing hard. Those few people in the front row could see the tears glistening in his eyes, but he straightened his back determinedly and forged on.

"I've been thinking for a long time about what I would speak to you about today, and in the end I decided on the importance of forgiveness, and reconciliation, and second chances." His voice grew stronger as he warmed to the theme, though he kept blinking, suddenly glad that he'd spent long enough writing the sermon that he would be able to give it even blinded by tears.

"All of us have been wronged in some way by others, often by those we are closest to. At the same time, all of us have things we've done that we regret. If you are penitent, God will forgive you, and if you are lucky, so will those you have wronged."

He paused again, and though no sound reached the congregation, his lips sketched out a brief prayer for strength.

"Forgiving doesn't mean dismissing the pain of being wronged. It means accepting it, embracing it, and moving forward. Forgiveness is _hard_. So, so hard. That doesn't mean it isn't worth doing."

"In our reading, you'll hear about loving your enemies as you love your friends and neighbours. About praying for those who persecute you. It's something we all need a reminder of occasionally, and I know I am no exception to that."

"In my time here I've learned a lot about compassion, and about family, and I've learned that even in my darkest hours - especially then! - that I need to listen to the Lord's words, and forgive others, as our Father forgives us."

He bowed his head for a long moment before looking out at his frozen congregation.

"This week, I would like you to take forgiveness out into the world. Reach out to someone who has wronged you, and offer them forgiveness."

"Please stand for our first hymn."

*-*-*-*-*

He doesn't stop by the Traders, though he feels a faint pang of guilt when he drives past for the last time without saying goodbye. It isn't as though he owes Becca anything, it just feels like there's a friendship there that could have been salvaged if he'd just given it a chance. Perhaps if he'd been confident in his choice to leave, certain that he couldn't be talked out of it, he might have dropped by.

The relationship between him and Becca had always been tentative, always felt like there was something missing. When he'd first sat down to help her with the accounts, the slight frisson between them had flared, but he'd pressed it down and kept it professional. They had found comfort in each other's arms during Danny's trial; her carrying the guilt of sleeping with Mark Latimer that single fateful night, him failing to deal with the guilt over speaking to Joe and somehow leading him so far astray. Burying his head in her sweet smelling neck, he could forget for a little while.

Plus after their tentative relationship at least he knows he's not gay. He can go back to his father with his head held high, meet the women he wants him to meet, say and do the right things, and perhaps finally be a man his father can be proud of.

**Present day**

The next time Hardy has a day off, he gets in his slightly shabby car, wearing his slightly shabby suit, and drives up to Gloucestershire, to a village with a smart pub and a cutesy village green and horses grazing in the nearby fields.

He checks the address twice - once where he'd written it down, and once where he's entered it into the satnav. It can't be the right place, because there's a drive as long as Broadchurch high street leading up to a grand house that wouldn't look out of place in a BBC period drama, and there are peacocks on the manicured lawn.

The peacocks don't bother looking at him as he pulls up on the gravel.

"Shit."

It's the first thing he's said since he stopped off for petrol two hours ago, and he sighs at his own stupidity. This is a long way to come on a ridiculous hunch, a magnitude worse than stalking Miller to her therapy appointments; Coates barely even knows him.

Squaring his shoulders, chin up, he strides up the grand steps to the door.

The doorbell rings deep inside the house, and he's already long past wanting to escape when the door opens wide.

Standing there, a confused frown on his familiar tired face, is Paul. The dog collar's gone and the cardigan has _certainly_ gone.

He's in a pale grey woollen suit that Hardy can tell - despite his own lack of fashion sense - must have cost as much as his whole wardrobe combined. It's perfectly tailored, and fits him like a glove, all the way down to his polished oxfords.

Hardy feels about two inches tall, and abruptly says, "You're alive then."

The frown deepens.

"Alive - what? Alec, what are you doing here?"

Hardy's already turning away. Clearly Paul has moved on from Broadchurch.

"Wait - you can't just go -"

"Paul? Who is it?"

Paul's face tightens and he ducks his head. "Just... a friend."

Hardy snorts. They couldn't even really be called friends - could you call a one-time suspect a friend? A coworker, perhaps.

A tall, balding man, with the same piercing green eyes as Paul but a thicker build, appears alongside him and puts an arm possessively around his shoulders. "Aren't you going to invite him in?" His accent is posh, expensive - not quite received pronunciation but enough hints of it to set Hardy's teeth on edge.

Paul's eyes are suddenly pleading, and Hardy falters in his determination to leave.

"Alec? We have herbal tea."

And that small offer, that suggestion that Paul knows a little more about him than he should, is enough to change his mind

"Yeah. Ok."

Coates senior holds out a hand. "Jerry."

"Alec." He hates the name as much as he always has but apparently this is a first names sort of occasion.

Hardy tries not to feel inferior as he's shown through to a lounge - a parlour? he doesn't know - but he's spoken to suspects in places like this before, so he refuses to show his nerves.

He can't take his eyes off Paul, hair still as neatly styled as ever but in the luxurious suit he looks like a stranger. His mind can't quite process that the vicar has somehow become this polished, posh git sliding through expensive hallways and looking like he'd be at home on Wall Street, but under the suit, under the trappings of wealth, Paul looks more unsettled than he ever looked in Broadchurch, even in the interrogation room.

Paul sits neatly, legs pressed together on the velvet sofa. His mouth is pressed just as tight, a little white round the edges, as the man Hardy presumes is his father makes small talk. It's painfully difficult, particularly with Paul shut down and silent, though he does what he can to draw the man into conversation.

"So, what's brought you to our little home?" Jerry eventually asks.

Hardy doesn't quite know where to start. It's a mad idea, coming to find Paul when it doesn't seem like he really wanted to be found. The ex-vicar is obviously uncomfortable, and Hardy can't help but feel guilty that he's brought up bad memories; perhaps something happened in Broadchurch that he hadn't known about? But he goes for honesty, in the end.

"A few people back in Broadchurch were wondering about you," he says to Paul, trying to ignore the other man. "I thought I'd visit in person. In case - y'know."

The older man belts out a laugh. "Oh, _Broadchurch_! Paul, he's one of your _flock._ "

Pink spots rise on Paul's cheeks but he doesn't say anything, though his gaze flickers away from where Hardy sits on the opposite sofa.

"He's come to check up on you!" He laughs and claps Paul on the back hard enough to jolt him forward a little, hard enough to make Paul close his eyes in a long, slow blink. "Well, he's back home now, tell your - hah, 'mates' not to worry. Isn't that right, Paul?"

Hardy waits with bated breath.

Paul's gaze is fixed on the floor and he doesn't look up as he nods. "Yes. I'm - fine. Please tell them not to worry."

"Good man!" his dad cries, smacking him on the back again. It seems jovial enough but Hardy winces in sympathy.

Paul swallows slowly. "Alec - I'll see you out?"

Hardy's bewildered enough by the whole situation to actually take the cue, and unfolds to his feet. He has a faint urge to brush off the sofa where he's sat but manages to resist.

Jerry gestures Hardy out first, Paul trailing behind him.

"It's been wonderful to meet one of Paul's friends, I know he's had a hard time but he's home now." He holds out a hand, and Hardy pauses for the slightest moment - he doesn't really want to touch this man, though he's by no means the most objectionable person he's spoken to this week - before taking it.

He can't help but squeeze a little too hard as he makes eye contact, but Jerry does the same, and there's a sudden brief war between them. Paul, on the sidelines, doesn't seem to notice, but he doesn't really seem to be completely present.

Neither of them win, both letting go with sore hands, but Hardy likes to think he's made a point.

He gets in his car and puts his foot down just a little too much, spitting stones up the posh steps. In the rear view mirror he can see the two of them, Paul pale and tired and shoulders curled in (but _handsome_ , and that thought makes Hardy blink) and his father by his side, chin arrogant and shoulders back.

It won't be the last time he visits, and already he's thinking that he can't leave Paul there forever, not in the soul sapping house with the loud, awful man who shares his blood but certainly doesn't seem to be _family._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Death of a minor original character.

**Paul's past - twenty four years ago - nine years old**

"Mummy! Mummy guess what I can do!" He's got his football in his hands, the orange one he got for his birthday, and he _has_ to show her his new trick, four rounds of keepy-uppy off his foot, a new record.

He's almost at the bedroom door when it swings open and his father strides out with a scowl. "Paul! I've told you before about this, your mother isn't well, you need to be quiet!" Paul flinches away, holding the football tight to his chest as he peers round the door with guilt dragging at his face. "Sorry, mum."

Lucy gives him a sad look. "Come here, sweetheart, your dad didn't mean to shout."

He scrambles up onto the bed, football forgotten as it rolls away on the hardwood floor, and throws himself gently at her chest. He's getting too old for hugs, really, but seeing his mum so pale and thin makes him desperately want to cling to her. She returns his hug with gentle encouragement, stroking his back and pressing a kiss into his hair.

She makes a brief noise of complaint when he squeezes a little too tight, but when he looks up she just wrinkles her nose, keeping her pain hidden away behind a cheerful mask. "You smell awful, young man. Have you been charging around outside with your football again?"

Paul gives her a wide grin, missing baby teeth giving him a rakish look. "I've been practicing!" He gives his father a quick, uncertain look, before anxiously meeting his mother's gaze. "Can I show you?"

Jerry Coates looks for a moment like he's going to step in, to protest too much excitement or perhaps no football inside, but her stern look subdues him.

"I'd love to. How many have you got up to now?"

"Nearly five!"

Paul demonstrates his new-found skills, though it's lucky the room has been cleared of valuables as he's a bundle of chaos and enthusiasm and debatable skill.

It's not long before his mother's eyes are drooping closed, but he manages to show her four full bounces with the ball, and she gives him a quick round of applause. "Very good, darling. I'm very impressed."

He picks up the ball again, uncertain if he's allowed to stay.

Lucy pats the bed beside her. "Come and sit with me." His father makes a sound of disapproval but this time she speaks softly to him. "I just want to sit with my son for a little while."

His face is lined and haggard as he looks at her with soft green eyes, wanting to reach out and hold her hand but as always, not quite sure how. "Just be _careful_ , don't overdo it."

"Don't fret so," she scolds him kindly, and he shakes his head and leaves the room.

Paul settles himself against the pillows next to her, and she buries her face in his blonde hair again. He doesn't smell awful, he smells of clean sweat and shampoo, and she desperately tries to commit the scent of him to her memory.

"Have you been saying your prayers?"

When she drifts off to sleep, he waits for a little while to see if she'll stir, but they spoke for a long time and he knows how much talking exhausts her these days, so he slides off the bed. Though the outside is calling, football tricks needing to be learned and swings to be swung on, he takes a minute to kneel at her bedside, hands pressed together as he whispers a childish prayer for God to help her get better.

*-*-*-*-*

Lucy Coates doesn't get better. The disease eats away at her, sapping her strength, and she spends most of her time sleeping, the house silent around her.

He's ten when she dies.

*-*-*-*-*

Paul wipes his eyes on the handkerchief, under strict instructions not to use his sleeves. Sitting on the bed he pulls on one stiff black shoe and then the other, tying the laces with numb fingers. The leather pinches a little but he knows better than to complain.

His grandparents are waiting in the living room, Grandpa and Grandma and Grandmother, and they give him whiskery kisses that smell of soap and old fashioned powders, Grandma running her fingers through his hair to tidy it even though he's been careful with the comb. She has a simple silver cross pinned to the lapel of her black jacket, and he fixes his eyes on it as she pats him into place. Eventually she rests her hands on his shoulders. "All done, young man." She gives him a smile, though her lip quivers. "Your mum would be very proud of you."

He doesn't know what to say to that, so offers up an awkward half smile and tries not to shuffle his feet. Father says it looks untidy.

The cars wait outside to take them to church. He gets in the car with his father, the older group following in the car behind. He chews a nail then fiddles with his tie, before a hand closes around his wrist tight enough to hurt. "Stop messing."

He looks out the window and tries to count the birds.

They arrive at the church, where Paul has spent every Sunday morning since he can remember, and there's more people outside than he's ever seen there, even at Christmas. Beside him his father lets out a sob, and Paul tentatively slides a hand across to wrap it around his father's wide palm. He doesn't let go until the car door opens.

The vicar, a short man whose usually cheerful face is somber, greets Paul's father with a handshake and a few soft words. Next, he leans down to speak to Paul, who gives him a half smile. He likes Reverend Jake. He always chooses the fun hymns and runs the arts and crafts group every Tuesday. He used to go with his mum, back when she still had the energy to do things.

"Today is a very sad day, Paul. It's OK if you want to cry, but it's OK if you don't want to, as well. God sees your heart and he knows how much you love your mum, and he'll be looking after her for you."

Paul stands with his grandparents as his father helps carry in the coffin. He understands that his mother's body is there, but her soul is gone and he doesn't feel any sadder, seeing the slow procession. It's when he sits at the front of the church and looks round at the hundreds of people silently gathered for her that it starts to become overwhelming, and when Reverend Jake starts to speak he has to sniff back tears.

"Lucy Coates was a kind and generous woman. A loving mother to Paul, a loving wife to Jerry, and a loving daughter to Elizabeth and Henry. She will be sadly missed by the whole community, including here at the church, where she ran the coffees every week and always made sure there were enough biscuits to go around - which as we all know is one of the most important things about coming to church!" That earns a soft ripple of laughter.

The rest of the service passes in a raw eyed blur, and before Paul really understands it all he's walking out into the sunshine again, swept up in a crowd of black.

He stands by the door as people shake hands with his father. Sometimes they shake his hand too, or give him a hug, or ruffle his hair.

Eventually, once it's just a few of them left, the vicar crouches down in front of him, looking up at him with a kind smile. "Keep coming to church, young man, the choir needs your lovely voice. And if you ever want to come along and help with the crafts group you are more than welcome."

Paul nods solemnly, but he's secretly pleased to be asked. Mum would approve.

*-*-*-*-*

The house is quiet when they get home. It had been quiet for months, except the brief times the nurses and doctors would visit, and even then Paul knew to stay out of the way. Now, though, it's different. He stays in his room until he's forced to eat, barely speaking.

Eventually he goes back to school, where he remembers that he's still a little boy who needs to run and shout, but when he has brief moments of giddiness at home and breaks the silence, the expression on his father's face makes him want to cry. Instead, he creeps around the long corridors, knowing that every time they talk it's just a reminder of what his father has lost.

Once or twice he forgets himself, and his father's furious response to being interrupted - at first shouting, later rough pushes, and blows that send him away crying - teach him to be silent, though after a while Paul loses track of exactly what might set him off, and just accepts that sometimes he carries bruises on his skin.

The church each Sunday is his respite, quiet but never fearful, and on Tuesdays too when he goes to the arts and crafts group. Reverend Jake is kind and never looks at him with pity; when he cries he offers him a biscuit, and his wife brings him hot chocolate, and they let him stay late to avoid going home for just a little while.

**Present day**

"Sir? Paul Coates for you on line two."

"Really? Alright, put him through."

He waits for the click of the transfer. "Paul?"

"Alec." His name is accompanied with a rush of air that sounds like relief. "This, ah, this sounds mad but were you - here? A few days ago?"

He sounds tentative, uncertain, as though he's expecting to be laughed at. Nothing like the young reverend spitting fire from the pulpit who had so chastised Hardy in the past.

"Briefly, yes. What's going on?"

"Nothing," is the hurried response. "But if you wanted to visit again that might be - nice."

His voice shakes on the invitation. It obviously has more importance than his casual words might suggest.

Hardy flips through his calendar. No Daisy this weekend, and he's off duty too. "I can come Saturday?"

That earns him another heartfelt sigh. "There's... My father has a party then."

"Some other day." Jerry Coates hadn't seemed like the sort of man to entertain gatecrashers.

"No, Saturday's - Saturday's good, that would be good. Come at eight, wear a tux. Go through the back." Rushed instructions, and Alec wonders for a moment if he should be encouraging this. Perhaps Paul isn't well, perhaps this is all some mad fantasy he's concocted in his own head.

But if his fear is justified - and his father had truly seemed unpleasant - it seemed cruel to have extended a hand only to snatch it back.

"I'll be there."

*-*-*-*-*

Hardy's uncomfortable in his rented tux, though he knows he looks good. He's even brushed his hair. It's not for Paul, he tells himself, it's just so he can get away with breaking into a party he doesn't think he's going to be welcome at. No point in drawing attention to himself.

He parks his car outside the gates, trudges up the long drive. The peacocks have vanished, and he briefly wonders if they have a house or if they just sleep in the trees.

The drive is filled with cars, expensive but not overtly flashy; high end Audis and Landrovers, rather than Lamborghinis. He keeps his hands in his pockets to avoid making contact and leaving fear-sweat fingerprints on the paintwork.

There's no one outside, and he's uninterrupted as he creeps around the side of the mansion, desperately trying to look like he's meant to be there. There's a tradesman's entrance, catering supply vans parked outside, and he slips inside unnoticed.

Inside there are bustling waiters and chaos, and in his smart tux he doesn't draw any attention as he heads into the main room. There's perhaps sixty, eighty people there, all in tuxedos and full length dresses, with waiters holding platters of hors d'oeuvres and trays of champagne. There's a piano playing in the background, something classical that he half recognises but can't name; it's the poshest party he's ever been to, fancier than any wedding.

Hardy plucks a delicate champagne flute from a blank faced waitress and starts his search for Paul.

He catches a glimpse of gelled blond hair; a pale face; a soft voice, but each time he's mistaken. Once his attention is caught by bright green eyes, a flicker through the crowd, but pulls up short when he realises they belong to Coates senior, and he turns away desperately hoping he's not been spotted. It's as terrifying as any undercover work, not least because he knows there's no backup if it all goes wrong and he has no right at all to be in this grand house, with his rented suit and trembling hands and medication in his breast pocket.

Demoralised, he drifts to the edges of the room, where the grand piano sends elegant notes soaring through the heady air. He sips slowly at the drink, savouring the few mouthfuls he'll allow himself before having to drive home; it's the nicest champagne he's ever had and must surely have cost a fortune.

Scanning the room with hooded eyes, his attention is caught by the piano player, straight backed and focused. Though all Hardy knows about piano is what he's picked up from Daisy's efforts at grade three, the music sounds complex and beautiful, and the man is clearly talented, elegant hands light on the keys.

Something about the way he tilts his head, the half view of his profile, gives him pause, and though the hairstyle is different he knows it's Paul.

Threading his way through the fringes of the crowd, he ends up barely a meter from the younger man, although Paul is so caught up in the music, eyes half closed as he sways above the keys, that he stands there unnoticed for a long time. Other guests offer quiet words in Paul's ear and then circle away back into the crowd, presumably compliments, though he doesn't break in his playing. Hardy doesn't want to make him jump, doesn't want to catch anyone else's attention, so waits and watches and listens.

When the piece finally draws to a close, slim fingers coming to rest in the final, delicate chord, he steps forward. There's a smattering of applause from the gathered crowd as Paul stands to give a perfectly polite half bow, head dipped, but before Hardy can draw his attention the man's hand reaches out to the champagne flute resting irreverently on the top of the piano.

Hardy's shocked and without really thinking it through he asks, "Should you be drinking that?"

Paul freezes, mouth pressed to the lip of the delicate glass, but then takes a single, pointed sip before putting it back down and raising a brow. His tuxedo fits him perfectly, and he looks more at home behind the piano than he did when they were stuck talking to Coates senior.

"This?" He nods at the glass and scoffs a little. "It's some awful fruit juice. My father is well aware of my weakness."

The relief is enough to soften Hardy's knees, but Paul glances around quickly and grins at him a little. "This, on the other hand," and he opens up his jacket and gives him a quick glimpse of the flask tucked into the beautifully lined inside pocket, "Isn't fruit juice."

He looks far too proud of himself and Hardy is quietly horrified.

He takes in the slightly glazed look in Paul's eyes, and the stubborn tilt to his chin, and suddenly feels very out of his depth.

"How long have you been..."

"Drinking?" Paul laughs. "Twenty years, or four months, depending on what you're asking."

Alec desperately wants to snatch the flask away, to shout at the drunk, cocky man stood in front of him, but Paul looks like he won't listen to a word of it, and even if he could say anything he hardly thinks he has the right.

Before he can fumble together a handful of words into something that might resemble a sentence, an older woman puts her hand on Paul's shoulder. He tenses at her touch but then turns, a generous smile on his face, and she's drunk enough not to notice, or perhaps just drunk enough not to care. She draws Paul into the room, Hardy fading into the background.

A woman in a cocktail dress takes a seat at the piano, polite and indifferent, and Hardy belatedly realises that of course Paul isn't just here to play music, there's a paid professional for that.

He watches as Paul circulates, tugged from one group to another, smiling and talking, touching hands and shoulders, remnants of the vicar still echoing in his movements. It's odd seeing the Paul he thought he knew and the Paul he clearly doesn't, combined in a single contradictory frame, strangely hypnotic.

Between groups, when he doesn't think he's being watched, the expression on Paul's face drops, replaced by something blank and numb. Hardy wants nothing more than to snatch him away, take him back to Broadchurch, offer him his clerical collar and a soft cardigan and a cup of the herbal tea they'd shared once in the vicarage, where Ellie Miller had looked on in disgust with her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee.

Eventually he ends up beside Hardy and comes to rest, shoulders tense and a muscle jumping in his jaw. At some point he's lost his champagne glass, not that it matters.

A waitress appears beside them and offers a replacement.

Alec goes to speak up, but Paul gives him a withering look. "Don't worry, they're all under strict instructions." And at least that look, that judgemental tone, has some of the man he knew.

"You've been drinking. Why?"

Paul shrugs, not looking guilty. "Felt like it."

He's had days and a three hour drive to think of what to say, and now he finally has the chance to talk he's drawing a complete blank.

There's the delicate ringing of metal on glass. "Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served." Simultaneously relieved and frustrated, Hardy makes a quick escape and waits out in the hall until the crowd has cleared. He expects Paul to have been ushered through with the rest, but once the noise of the crowd has faded there's a soft chord on the piano swiftly tumbling into something else, something slow in a minor key that wrenches at his heart. A voice makes him jump, but it's only Paul lifting his voice in a warm, low tenor.

Hardy closes his eyes, still hidden behind the door, and presses his back against the wall. This feels like something private, something he shouldn't be here for; like the aching music is from the very depths of Paul's heart, baring his soul across the empty room. It's not a performance for anyone but the musician himself, and perhaps some omnipotent, uncaring God.

Hurried, heavy footsteps; a thud; voice and music cut off with a yelp. Jerry Coates' voice reaches him followed by Paul's murmured response.

"Two minutes. That's all. Don't embarrass me." Another soft murmur from Paul, ending in something that sounds like a plea.

The music picks up again, though Paul doesn't sing. There's the click of a door closing, though Hardy waits another few long seconds to be certain. He knows it's his last chance to speak, and he steps into the room, suddenly huge and empty now the guests have gone. "Paul."

"Alec." His hands settle into something less gut-wrenching, one of the classical pieces from earlier. Less heart, less soul, but at least it doesn't sound like it's tearing him apart.

"That's beautiful."

He shrugs, then lets the music trail into nothing, staring up into thin air before letting his gaze drift over to Alec. "I'm sorry," he offers, though he doesn't elaborate. The glazed look hasn't budged.

Abruptly he gets to his feet, stumbling a little on the piano stool, and Hardy leaps forward to catch at his arm, concern twisting in his chest. "Y'alright?"

Paul flinches away and holds up an imperious hand, keeping him back as his jaw clenches. "I'm _fine_."

"You sure?"

Paul gives him a bitter grin. "Can't upset father, can I?"

As though summoned, Coates senior reappears in the doorway. There's no suggestion of violence now, when there's an apparent guest in the room, but his voice is still sharp.

"Paul! You're the guest of honour, you..." He trails off, frowning at Hardy. "You were here last weekend, weren't you? I didn't invite you."

Alec holds his hands up placatingly. "I'm just here to see Paul." He's angry; he can hear it in his own voice, vowels lengthening though he tries to keep his tone level and calm.

Jerry's attention switches to the younger man. "Are you _drunk_?" His horror matches Hardy's own, with an unsettling undertone of disgust.

Paul gives him a grin that speaks of nervous defiance. "So what if I am?"

Jerry turns his furious gaze back to Hardy. "Did you bring him alcohol?"

The concept of the accusation is awful enough that it takes him a moment to understand. "What? No!"

But his protest falls on deaf ears; Coates is shouting for help and two waiters are stalking towards Hardy in a manner that makes him want to reach for his radio and call for backup, although of course that's not possible.

"I'm going, I'm going." He backs off, shooting Paul a quick look. It looks like he's mentally zoned out again, curling in on himself and staring fixedly at the floor, and Hardy shakes his head, turning away. "Bye, Paul."

" _Out!_ "

The walk down the driveway is long, and lonely. This time when Hardy looks back at the house, the only people in view are two door staff, expressions firm. Paul is nowhere to be seen.

**Paul's past - twenty years ago - thirteen years old**

Paul Coates has his first drink at eight, a sip from his mother's wine glass over dinner. It's bitter and unpleasant, lingering on his tongue.

"That's horrid! Why do you drink that?!"

His parents laugh at him as he pulls a face. "You'll get used to it when you're a grown up."

"Bleugh, no I won't!"

He doesn't try alcohol again until he's nearly fourteen, pouring amber liquid from a heavy carafe in his father's study, eyes red from crying. This is what his father does when he locks himself in his study, so perhaps this is the adult way of coping, perhaps this is better than just crying into his pillow, perhaps this will help.

It burns his tongue and throat as it goes down, and the fear of being caught stealing from his father adds to the giddiness the whisky brings to his head.

There's a bruise on his arm and an aching sorrow in his chest, but they fade just a little as he rinses out the glass with trembling fingers, gaze unsteady as he stumbles to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains violence and a single use of very homophobic language (f*****) alongside more general homophobia.

**Present day**

Hardy's worried now.

He wasn't really, before; it was mostly just for his own curiosity, an idle reassurance that people can't just vanish without a trace. But seeing Paul like that has worried him. He's seen trauma before, and this - this looks like trauma.

Never mind the suit, and the house, and the peacocks. Something is very definitely not right.

Once he's back in Broadchurch, three or four hours of fretting and brooding in the car and a fitful night's sleep under his belt, he restarts his research.

He hadn't told Ellie where he was going - after her crack about stalking he'd felt like he might have been getting a bit of a reputation - but he does casually mention, "Oh, I saw Paul the other day."

"The vicar? Really?"

"Yeah."

She waits futilely for him to add more then sighs with a frustrated roll of her eyes. "Well? How was he? What happened?"

Hardy shrugs. "Family. Like he said. Didn't look that happy, but that's family for you.

Miller doesn't look impressed, giving him a suspicious look, but eventually nods. "Seeing him again?"

"Mebbe."

"Tell him I said hi."

It should have been easy to get a phone number from the station phone system, following up on Paul's phone call a week ago, but when he'd checked the call logs it had frustratingly come from a private number. All the same, after a few days he manages to track down a number for the mansion, hoping guiltily that no one checks up on his abuse of police resources.

In the privacy of his office, he calls, waiting with his fingers crossed, but when the line finally picks up it's Jerry, not Paul. He hangs up, not wanting to talk to the man again, but doesn't give up.

Over the next few days he tries again, dropping the line each time the answering voice isn't Paul's familiar tenor, feeling like a teenager trying to get hold of his crush without getting a parent on the line. Eventually, on perhaps the six or seventh call, early Friday morning, Paul picks up.

"Hello?"

The voice is weary, slow, and Hardy feels a pang of sympathy for the insomniac.

"Paul. It's -" (Hardy? Alec?) "-Alec. I wanted to check you were alright. You didn't seem... well."

"Alec?"

"Aye, Alec Hardy."

Hardy hears a few false starts, Paul fumbling over his words. It's not something he's really heard from the man, he's usually one for 'um' and 'ah' but not this, not half-stuttering.

"I'm just - I'm ok. It's different here, it's not like..." And Hardy thinks he almost heard _home_ , but not sure enough to call him on it "...not like Broadchurch"

"But you're OK? You're safe?"

"I - I'm not in danger."

That's not what he asked, but it's too late, he can hear another voice in the background. "Paul? Who is it?"

"No one - wrong number - "

And Hardy's listening to the dial tone.

**Paul's past - Fifteen years ago - eighteen years old**

At eighteen, Paul packs his bags and heads to university. After a year of fighting over his choice, or at least a year of angry protests from him and uncompromising determination from his father, he's studying finance. He's managed to squeeze in a handful of literature modules, though not as many as he would have liked, and is determined to pay his own way, despite his father's dislike of part time jobs.

In his first month he gets a girlfriend from his course, cut glass accent and lacrosse and a family tree that goes back further than his. When she dumps him, he doesn't wait long before throwing himself into the student life, clubbing till late and crawling to lectures the next morning, squeezing in the odd bar shift. One hungover morning he finds himself with a number scrawled on his coffee cup, and in a first tentative foray he goes on a date with the barista, a confident solidly built rugby player who's been out for years and doesn't mind too much that Paul's very definitely not out of the closet.

He never takes Tom home to meet his father, but does awkwardly join him on a visit to Northern Ireland their second summer together in between odd jobs that pay his rent. Tom's family house is small and crammed with red haired relatives, though Tom himself has dark hair and dark eyes. His mother laughs that he's related to the postman and his father makes another crude joke that has Paul in howls of laughter.

Tom's mother gives him a kind smile when they talk about family and he keeps silent, and later gives him an extra large slice of cake without saying a word. He has to dig his nails into his palms to keep himself from crying when they leave.

They break up by mutual agreement early in their final year, young love faded to friendship. Tom meets a girl the next semester, and three years after graduating sends Paul a letter excitedly telling him he's proposed and they're engaged to be married. The letter never reaches him, and when Facebook becomes a big deal a few years later Paul is confronted by a grinning family of six, twin red headed boys and two younger girls with dark hair. He thinks about sending him a joking message about the postman but never quite gets up the courage.

After graduating Paul moves back in with his father, working at a local accountants, no desire for the world of London mergers and acquisitions. Used to the comfortable boisterous chaos of shared student housing he forgets himself, leaving a bag in the hall, playing music too loud, not putting the piano away properly. Speaking out of turn. Speaking disrespectfully. Speaking without being spoken to.

Each transgression is punished more than the last, however minor, though he can't help but push back, too used to freedom, though bruises flare on his pale skin as much as they ever did. As always, they're hidden under clothes, and no one notices.

One day after work he drops by the corner shop where he buys his lunch and picks up a bottle of vodka. Less classy than whisky, but easier to disguise on the breath and it numbs the pain just as well.

A couple of months after returning home he notices the cane reappear in the umbrella stand by the door, an unsubtle threat. Old fear patterns kick in, and he pulls away, keeping himself silent and creeping round the long halls, speaking only when necessary.

It comes to a head one night over Sunday dinner, a silent affair with candles and three courses and strong wine.

He knows it's a bad idea, but the words have been held back so long they come bubbling up out of him, an irrepressible fountain.

The clatter of his fork dropping on china interrupts his father's thoughts on the latest political scandal, and Jerry looks up, already irritated at the disruption.

"Dad. I'm bisexual."

There's a long moment of silence. Coates senior places his cutlery neatly on his own plate, knife then fork, before folding his hands neatly on his lap.

"I beg your pardon?"

Paul swallows. "I'm bi. It means I like men and women."

Jerry rises to his feet and Paul cringes back, but he's already turning away and leaving the room.

Paul's left alone, looking at the remnants of roast beef and gravy, appetite faded.

His father doesn't look at him for three days, doesn't speak to him for six.

When Paul tentatively offers him a glass of wine a week later, Jerry accepts it with a grimace, scowling at the ruby liquid as he spits out, low and furious, "No son of mine will be gay, you hear me?"

Paul doesn't bother to explain the difference between bi and gay. He doesn't think it would matter. "It's not a big deal!" But it is, the desperate need for acceptance churning in his gut as bright green eyes plead.

His father surges to his feet, wine splattering across the rug as he slams the glass on a table. "It's _disgusting_ ," he roars, face red with rage. It's a week of seething and a decade of loss that gives strength to his arm, knocking Paul's slim frame to the ground with a heavy blow to his cheek.

Tears flow, though over the years he's become astute at repressing them, and he cups a hand over the damaged flesh, icy fingers a temporary reprieve. His father stands over him, and Paul glares up at him, bitter and angry. "Fuck you."

It's a mistake, he knows it's a mistake, but the words trip off his tongue like they've been waiting there years for him to weaken.

Coates senior turns on the heel of his expensive shoe and lines up a kick that proves Paul's football skills are partly down to genetics, swinging up into his ribs hard enough that Paul's body skids across the hardwood floor.

As he lies there gasping, chest aching, he thinks the worst is over but it's not, heavy footsteps heralding his father's return.

A long forgotten swish is all the warning he gets before there's a line burning across his bicep, a vicious crack that makes him flinch in the instant before the pain kicks in. A second stroke, a third, as he curls in a ball and tries to protect his head from the blows. Some glance off, anger making his aim wild, but Jerry's panting by the time he's done. Below him Paul is sobbing so hard he can barely take in air, ribs aching with every desperate breath.

Jerry drops the cane carelessly on the floor with a clatter. "You're not my son, not any more. Your mother would be ashamed."

Paul lies there for a long time until his sweat has dried cold and his tears are nothing but salt tracks on his cheeks.

He leaves that night, left eye swollen shut, and moves in with an old housemate.

When he goes to buy groceries a day later, his card is denied, and he has to fumble for cash in his wallet. The bank account his father had access to is empty, though it had only ever held his own wages. He borrows money from a friend, scrapes through to payday, and just about manages to keep his head above water.

After a while, he feels his friend's frustration building at his intrusion, and knows the time has come to move on. He quits his internship with a glowing reference and a hug from the office manager, who after seeing his bruised face and hearing his clumsy excuses had always made sure to save him sandwiches when the partners had a working lunch. He kisses her on the cheek and heads to London and another friend's sofa until he can find a shared place he can afford. He finds a job in a bar, his quiet but open demeanor enough to draw sad drunken men into confessing their sins.

**Present day**

Hardy has to go back.

The weekend after the phone call he drags himself into the car again, having made some feeble excuse when Ellie asked him to join her and Fred on the beach. He likes to think she's getting suspicious, but she put up with this behavior from him for years, so maybe she just thinks he's reverting to old habits.

As he approaches the grand house, he feels the urge to look in the rearview mirror and tidy his hair, but scowls at himself instead, refusing to change a single thing just because he's visiting a bloody mansion.

He's got no tie on, but he thinks if he'd worn one he might have deliberately tugged it askew just to make a point.

At the house, it takes a long time for the door to be answered. When it finally opens, Hardy's gaze is met with familiar green eyes.

Jerry Coates stands there, looking down at him, though they're of a height.

"Paul here?" Hardy asks abruptly.

"I'm afraid he's indisposed. I'm afraid you should have - called - in advance."

The man's voice is silky but the undertone of menace isn't subtle; Hardy's heard subtle threats, and unsubtle ones, and he knows the difference.

Hardy steps forward, too close, a threat of his own. These days he has the strength in him to back it up. "I'd like to see him."

"Not today."

His gaze meets Jerry's for a long time in silence, before he leans slightly to the side and, with the voice he usually reserves for bollocking particularly stubborn suspects or useless sergeants calls out, "Paul?"

Silence.

Coates senior looks at him smugly.

Hardy tries again, louder.

This time he thinks he hears something. Just a clatter, something hitting the floor.

He shoulders past the older man, who responds by grabbing his arm - "Don't you dare come inside my home like this!"

Hardy stares at him for a long moment. "Get your hands off me."

Something in his voice, in his gaze loosens the thick fingers around his wrist, and he's headed upstairs, Jerry fuming in his wake.

There's too many bloody rooms - "Paul!"

There's absolute silence, so he starts opening doors.

Bedroom.

Another bedroom.

All untouched, dust sheets covering the elegant furniture.

"I'm calling the police!" Comes the shout from behind him.

"Aye, you do that," Hardy murmurs.

Another empty bedroom and then - a locked door.

"Paul? You in there?" He pounds on the door and listens intently.

All he can hear is Jerry Coates behind him, hissing into his phone, "There's a madman in my house!"

"....Alec?"

The voice is faint and croaky but it's definitely Paul, so Hardy shoulders at the door.

It doesn't move, and he can't be bothered to humiliate himself with trying to break it down.

He turns to Coates senior. "The _key_ ," he snarls.

Coates looks wide eyed and furious, but as Hardy steps towards him he backs off, fumbling in his pocket, and tosses a key at Hardy's feet.

"You're welcome to him. Fucking useless boy."

Hardy fumbles the key, hands shaking with adrenaline, and slides it into the lock.

The older man heads downstairs but Hardy doesn't spare him any attention. All he can see is Paul, slumped in an armchair, clad in tailored shirt and trousers. The shirt is open at the neck, and at one wrist.

Paul looks up at Hardy and blinks slowly. He looks half asleep.

"I can't believe you came back."

His voice is harsh, and no wonder. There are marks around his neck, two deep red spots pressed around his Adam's apple, and Hardy's seen those marks before, more than once. He knows they're thumb prints. The bruising stretches around his throat, dark from ear to ear, and when Paul swallows he closes his eyes in pain.

Alec reaches out a hand but lets it drop when Paul half flinches and looks away, not meeting his gaze.

"Christ," Hardy whispers.

There's more bruising at Paul's wrist where the expensive looking shirt is rolled up, presumably for him to examine the damage; more wrapped lines of harsh fingers. Hardy's felt those fingers on his own wrist, he knows exactly how they fit.

He shakes his head. "We're leaving."

Paul laughs a little, short and disbelieving. "I don't think it works like that, Alec."

"Well, it works like that today. Come on, get up."

Between slow blinks Paul looks skeptical, but puts a hand on the arm of the sofa to lever himself upwards.

It's a slow process, and Hardy's suddenly aware that Coates senior has been gone a while, and in a place like this who knows what he's hiding. Probably got a sodding shotgun somewhere, though he tries not to think too long about that. His attention's split, enough that he doesn't notice how slowly Paul gets up.

When Paul staggers forward, Hardy tucks a hand under his arm to slide it round his back and help him across the room, but he cries out and flinches away.

"Sorry - sorry - " Too intimate, too close for a man who's obviously been attacked.

But as Paul jerks away his back is suddenly visible, and Hardy's heart drops. There are - _marks_ through the shirt. Bloody lines, left to right, mostly across his shoulders. The marks go low enough on the shirt that there's probably some on his arse as well, though the designer fabric held up to the beating.

"Jesus, Paul - is that -"

He feels sick

"Don't," Paul whispers. "Please don't ask."

But Hardy doesn't need to ask; at least he doesn't need to ask _what_ it was even if he desperately wants to know _why_.

The shirt is torn in one or two places above the spots of blood, and he can see though the fabric to the bloody and bruised skin beneath.

A whip, he thinks. A cane. A strap.

If he finds it he's going to beat Jerry Coates to death with it.

"Alright," he says. "Alright. We're leaving. Can you walk?"

"Slowly. Don't, ah - don't rush me."

Hardy chokes out an unhappy laugh. "I won't."

He leads the way, looking for Coates senior, but he seems to have vanished. As he guides Paul out into the corridor he glances back at the room, at the velvet chair and king size bed, and feels faint at the realisation that the striped pattern on the back of the chair is Paul's blood.

Paul takes his time down the stairs, Hardy hovering close enough to help if needed but not quite close enough to touch - he doesn't want to cause more pain. The man moves as though he's ninety, and Hardy's fervently glad that his car is right outside.

The great heavy door opens surprisingly easily and Hardy rushes ahead to open up the car. Paul hasn't made eye contact once, but as he holds open the car door for him there's a sudden moment where their gazes meet, such an intense desperate gratitude in Paul's eyes that Hardy reels back.

There's a shout at the door - "Paul! Paul Coates come back here, you little shit!"

A shudder runs through Paul, and Hardy strips off his suit jacket to lay it carefully around his shoulders. He waits until Paul meets his eyes again. "I've got this," he says gently.

Paul nods, once, though he still looks dazed

He settles the man in the car. Paul goes even more pale, the bruises on his neck stark against his white skin, but he doesn't flinch away even when his wounded back presses against the seat, just a tightening of his lips betraying him.

Hardy shuts the door and turns around.

"How dare you take my son! You come into my house, you little - you little - "

Hardy moves closer as Jerry speaks, stalking up the steps.

He can feel his gaze narrowing, red hazing the edges of his view.

"I'm taking Paul home. If you ever - _ever_ \- come near him again, I will have you arrested. And if you so much as think of laying a finger on him, I will end you. Do. You. Understand."

Hardy doesn't recognise his own voice, and he can feel his hand clenching spasmodically

Jerry looks at him and his lip curls back. "Fucking _faggot_."

Hardy moves without thinking, and the older man is suddenly in a heap on the floor, one hand pressed over his mouth, blood dribbling down his chin.

"You're no father. You're a fucking disgrace."

He turns on his heel and doesn't look back. When he shuts the car door he sits silently for a long moment, staring out through the windscreen at the manicured lawn.

Paul doesn't say anything either, but when Hardy finally stirs enough to look at the injured man in the passenger seat he looks asleep, or perhaps just unconscious.

He reaches across to buckle Paul in, tucking the belt under his arm so it's only around his waist, although the younger man's face twists unhappily at even that pressure. When he puts the car in gear he pulls away slowly, no rushed acceleration that might push Paul back against the seat.

He's driving past Bristol when the adrenaline abruptly drops out of his system and he has to pull over and put his head between his knees.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor warning for implied / referenced sex work.

**Paul's past - ten years ago - twenty three years old**

Paul lives alone in a cheap studio flat, the walls thin enough that he can hear everything from the apartments around him. When a family - mum, dad, two young boys - moves in next door, he feels guilty for disliking their childish shrieking, for channelling his father's strict rules on children being seen and not heard, and bites back any complaints he might have voiced.

He gets home late one night, the dawn chorus already starting, and stumbles into bed. It's been a long shift, busy, and his arms ache from pulling pints and carrying crates. He's woken a couple of hours later by the clatter of feet running down a hallway, and buries his head under the pillow with a groan.

He’s sober, pretty much, the shift too busy for him to even have water never mind anything stronger except for a quick swig at the end of the night after - _after_ , and he knows he’ll sleep better if he can just have a drink, stop thinking about the ways he's had to make rent this month that aren't just serving pints and sweeping up broken glass. Stop thinking about the disgusting alleyway behind the bar, cardboard boxes and stench and rough brick walls and hot breath on his skin.

All that and it’s not going to make a difference anyway; the eviction notice was waiting for him when he got home.

He gets up, nauseous; retches half-heartedly in the toilet though there's nothing left but bile; brushes his teeth until his gums are sore and the minty foam on the white porcelain is pink. Once he can't bear another second of looking at the accusing reflection of his bruised jaw and petechial hemorrhaging on his cheeks and around his eyes, he rinses one last time and stumbles back out to the half-kitchen at the end of his room.

He’s not been shopping in a while, groceries low on his priority list behind keeping the roof over his head; his fridge is empty of pretty much anything, the cupboards only offering up instant noodles and a half empty bag of pasta. No cider, no spirits. Grabbing his wallet and a jacket he heads to the shops. He buys a bottle of cheap vodka, a small one, and a reduced-price sandwich. He sits on a park bench, eats the sandwich first to dull the gnawing in his stomach and then swallows back the alcohol, the burn in his throat barely noticeable, until a sharp eyed police officer suggests that he might like to move on. 

The sound of church bells draws him down a side street. He's normally asleep, or at least in bed, when they chime, but it's nice to hear them with fresh air in his lungs.

The stone entrance is ornate, and he feels guilty shuffling inside in his slept-in jogging bottoms and ratty jacket. The service has already started so he slinks in at the back, trying not to stumble.

It's flashier inside than he's used to but the heavy silence is the same, and he can feel the peace sinking into his bones, the steady rhythm of the priest's liturgy a familiar rolling wave.

He's still there at the end of the service when the church has all but emptied, curled over and staring down at his hands where they're clasped together so tightly the knuckles are white, squashed between his knees as one leg jumps rhythmically.

"You're welcome to confess, if that would help." The priest waits patiently at the end of the pew.

"I'm not Catholic," he says shortly, not making eye contact. He can see the ends of black robes out of the corner of his eye.

"Ah, but still Christian then. Anglican?"

Paul eventually nods. "Lapsed."

"You can still take confession. Or I can pray for you, if you'd like."

He considers ignoring him, or just walking out, but his memories of his mother whispering prayers over him are still strong after more than a decade, and he nods again, bringing his hands to rest under his chin and closing his eyes.

The soothing voice washes over him, and by the time he hears _amen_ there are tears rolling down his cheeks, shoulders silently heaving.

There's a long silence afterwards. "We have a meeting here this evening. You'd be welcome to attend."

It takes him a minute to understand what he's being told. "I don't need a _meeting_." His voice is bitter as he lies.

"It's at seven. Every Sunday and Wednesday, if you aren't ready today."

**Present day**

When they finally reach the nearest A&E to Broadchurch, Alec pulls in. "Paul. Paul, wake up."

The younger man wakes with a start and a bitten back groan, and eyes that flicker around the car, taking everything in before focussing on Hardy.

"Alec?"

"Yeah," and it's a relief that Paul recognises him, that there's no confusion. "We're at the hospital. Come on."

"I don't need -"

"Paul," and Hardy's voice cracks, though he tries to be firm, "You need to get checked out. Please."

Paul follows meekly, clutching Hardy's jacket around his shoulders, and when they get inside Hardy unashamedly waves his badge around and demands immediate attention.

They don't wait long, but by the time they're seen Paul's half asleep again, listing against Hardy's shoulder.

"Paul Coates?"

A doctor, dark haired and a little tired looking, calls his name and Paul snaps awake, wide eyed, jerking to his feet before he's even fully aware.

Hardy rests a calming hand on his bicep and it's enough to bring him back into the room.

"Paul?"

"Yeah, I'm ok - I'm ok." He's not ok, he can feel his heart racing, but Hardy's looking at him with concern and the doctor's looking at him like he might cause trouble and he just wants this done.

"I'm Doctor Sarah Harrison, I'll be looking after you. This way please." Her business-like attitude is surprisingly reassuring.

They're shown to a room, or the A and E equivalent, a bed with a curtain around it for privacy.

"Will you be staying?" She flicks a look at Hardy as Paul eases himself onto the bed.

"Yes." Paul's suddenly relieved, and grateful, but Hardy adds, "I need to take photos. Evidence."

"Right," she says with a nod.

Right, Paul thinks.

She stands in front of him, eyes flickering dispassionately over his throat and wrist. "I can see some fairly substantial bruising but I'm assuming there's more."

"My, ah, back. I think it was bleeding."

She stands behind him; he can feel the weight of her gaze. "Ok, can you take off your shirt?"

He manages the buttons himself with numb fingers, trying not to think, but when he needs to slip it from his shoulders the movement pulls at his damaged skin and he stops, biting back a hiss of pain.

"That's fine, I can do the rest."

It suddenly dawns on Paul that he's about to have the very worst of his failings laid bare in front of a man who hardly knows him, but who already knows he's an alcoholic, who once thought him capable of a terrible crime. He wants to protest, to send him away, but the words die pathetically in his throat.

Hardy's gaze is intense, fixed on his back as the shirt is pulled away, arms folded across his chest. Paul envies him the defensive position, but he can't manage it himself without the pain flaring, so he just grips tightly at the edge of the bed, head bowed and shoulders curled.

"Ok, that's not so bad! We can deal with that, no problem."

The doctor's sudden cheerfulness tells him that it's worse than he thought, and Hardy's sucked in breath confirms it.

"Wait -" Hardy speaks up, making Paul jump and glance up at him. His dark eyes are apologetic, though he only meets his gaze for a second before glancing back at Doctor Harrison. "Do you have evidence bags?"

"Of course - wait here, please?"

They wait in awkward silence.

The shirt is pulled low down his back, wrapped around his wrists, and he has to take deep breaths to keep from panicking at the restraint. Hardy seems to pick up on his distress, though not his reasoning. "I can get someone else, if you want? I don't have to stay here with you."

"No," Paul forces out.

"A female officer?"

Paul's head swings towards him, half angry, half terrified, eyes red rimmed but dry. "Alec. I can't - I can't argue with you. You, someone else - I don't care. I just want to get it _done_."

Hardy looks at him steadily. "Alright."

When Doctor Harrison returns with the sealed evidence bags, it only takes a minute to take the shirt gently from Paul's wrists and slide it in the bag. He takes a quick look at it, and the sight of his own blood makes him feel ill. He's thankful the bag is paper, the stained material neatly hidden away.

"Paul." Hardy's voice makes him jump again, though it's pitched low and calming. "I need to take photos of your injuries. Is that alright?"

No. "Yes."

At least the phone makes no artificial sound as it documents his skin. It feels like it takes a long time, and his attention has wandered by the time Hardy steps into view. "Tilt your head back," he instructs, and Paul raises his gaze to the ceiling, swallowing hard to keep back the tears. He can't quite find it in himself to pray.

Multiple photos of his throat, Hardy's gaze intense and heavy.

"Hold out your arm."

His hand is heavy as he lifts it and his fingers tremble, but he offers it to Hardy, delicate broken veins uppermost. Gentle fingers brush his forearm, turning his arm to show the full wrapped handprint.

"Ok. All done."

Sarah gives him a sympathetic smile. "You must be cold. We can get you into some clothes while I work, and a blanket." He hadn't noticed the shudders chasing themselves over his skin, but he's grateful for the offer.

Hardy takes the evidence bag, holds it against his chest. "I'll, ah, be outside."

While he's gone, the doctor asks about drugs, about alcohol. He says no to the first, and "a little" to the second. She doesn't press but he feels she looks at him a little differently after that.

*-*-*-*-*

Standing out by the hospital entrance, there's a faint whiff of stale smoke, and Hardy's fingers itch with a sudden desperate craving for a cigarette. Instead, he dials dispatch. It's a Saturday night, but from the relatively quiet emergency room he might be in luck.

"DI Hardy. I need an officer at A and E to pick up evidence."

He has a sudden stroke of genius. "And, uh - if they could bring the bag of spare clothes from under my desk, that would be appreciated."

"Yes sir. Be with you in an hour."

Good, they might get out before midnight.

A nurse leaves the building, lights up. Hardy tries not to be too obvious as he inhales deeply, the second hand smoke just enough to give him a tantalising hint of a buzz. He's cold in just his shirt sleeves but it suddenly seems worth waiting outside for just a little longer.

She catches his eye, gives him a knowing look. "Want one?"

He looks away. No Miller, to catch him smoking like a naughty schoolboy. But she'd know, he wouldn't be able to lie to her.

"Thanks. But I quit."

"Oh, me too."

He leaves her for the warmth of the emergency room, trying not to think about the feel of nicotine trickling into his lungs.

Paul's changed, looking washed out in the white hospital gown.

Doctor Harrison gives him a quick look as he slips through the curtains, pulling them closed behind him. "There's a couple more photos needed, I think."

Paul won't make eye contact with him. Hardy's not sure he's even registered that he's back.

"Paul? If you want to lie down on your front, the detective can take the last few photos and I'll get started with treatment."

Pale cheeks flush red, but Paul wordlessly lies down on the thin hospital bed, tense and stiff.

The gown opens at his back, and the doctor's cool hands move it aside so Hardy can see the last of the damage.

There must be nearly thirty marks striping his back, though a few of them have the yellow bruising of time. The worst are across his shoulders, a cruel handful of them piled one on top of the other and the skin bloodied and torn. Perhaps half of them are bleeding, and where there's no open wounds the skin is darkly red and purple, great welts raised from left to right. They extend down his back, over his kidneys - and surely that must be a concern - down to his arse, lines wrapped around the meaty flesh.

There's hardly a square inch of his back that isn't mottled with angry bruising, and Alec has to force down a fresh rush of fury at the full sight of it all.

It must have hurt. It must still be hurting.

He takes the last few photos of below Paul’s waist, impersonal and cold, and sends them on to his work email, trying to forget the weight of them in his pocket. Sarah gives Hardy a sad half smile as she tugs the gown over Paul enough to give him a little dignity.

"All done."

She gets no acknowledgement.

"I'll be back in a second, just going to get a few bits."

The silence is awkward between them, filled only with the muted chaos of the emergency room and Paul's ragged breathing.

He steps into Paul's line of sight, where his gaze is fixed on some spot far from the hospital.

"I, ah, I know it's sore. The worst of it should fade pretty quickly."

Paul turns his head to the other side. "Yeah."

Hardy adds, to Paul's hair, "You'll probably be stiff for a couple of weeks."

No response.

"Worse when you wake up, but we'll keep you up and moving, that'll help."

Paul twists back to look at him. "I know. It's not the first time."

Hardy swallows. "I know. I'm sorry." He looks suddenly fragile, arms wrapped around himself and dark eyes wide as he ducks his head.

When Sarah returns, both men are silent, lost in their own worlds.

"Now, I'm going to clean these up a bit, and it might sting. I'm sure you must be in a lot of pain, so I've got something to help with that."

Paul shifts on the bed to give her a wide eyed look. "No narcotics." And he's determined, even though shock and tiredness has left him slurring his words.

She gives him a heavy look. "They're not addictive when used correctly, and this is going to be unpleasant. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Just - paracetamol or something."

Curious eyes flicker to Hardy and he nods briefly - give the man what he wants, no more.

"Alright. I'll numb the area as much as possible but if it gets too much, ask me to stop and I'll stop."

*-*-*-*-*

The intercom squawks out Hardy's name, summoning him to the front desk. He's relieved to leave the oppressive treatment room, where Paul's biting on his lip and choking back cries of pain.

The constable looks at him with vague interest but is smart enough not to ask any questions. Hardy hands over the bags - shirt, trousers, underwear, sealed and signed for.

"Take it to the station, log it into evidence, that's it. I'll deal with it later."

The duffel bag filled with spare clothes goes over his shoulder and he turns back to the curtained area when Paul lies prone.

Inside, Paul is white faced, hand gripping hard at the sheets beneath him.

"How's it going?"

"Fucking - brilliant," Paul snarls out, face buried in the bed. He's clearly a man reaching the end of his tether.

The doctor's more enthusiastic, and more enlightening. "There's obviously a lot of bruising, and I think you probably have some bone contusions under the worst of it, but we're all disinfected, just a handful of stitches and we can get the dressings on."

He puts the bag on the floor, rummages through it and drags out jogging bottoms and a t-shirt, piling them on a chair. They're clean, intended for his own use after injury rather than to be worn around the office, and they'll do a turn. There's underwear too, though that seems a bit much, and he eventually decides on just socks.

When he turns back, the doctor is leaning over Paul, one hand gentle on his skin, the other wielding a needle.

Hardy's fine with it, he's seen plenty of injuries in his time, though he doesn't see a beating like this often. It's only when the bandages come out that his heart rate picks up, cool hands pressing clean white gauze over heavy bruising a visceral memory he would rather stay buried.

All attention on Paul's treatment, his bitten out "Back in a minute," goes unremarked. He grabs his jacket on the way out.

He stumbles to the bathroom, hands busy in the jacket pocket, breath coming fast and shallow, vision blurring.

It's not his heart, the pacemaker sees to that, but the sense of oncoming doom is overwhelming all the same, lying heavy on his breast and suffocating him, trickling down his spine.

He leans over the sink to spit out thick, cloying saliva, then shoves two pills in his mouth one after the other and swallows them dry.

It barely takes a minute for them to kick in, steadying his heart and shaking hands, fending off the panic, but he waits a little longer to avoid the sounds of tape and scissors through bandages.

When he returns, Paul's shrugging on the clothes. They're a little snug, and the trousers are a little long, but better than going home in scrubs. Sarah's gone, and a nurse is helping Paul arrange the material around his injuries. He's pale but seems more cheerful, smiling at the young man helping him.

"Will he be going home with you?"

They both stutter at that, but Hardy nods firmly, and is met with a smile. "That's good - he'll need a bit of looking after. Doc'll be back in a minute, she'll give you instructions."

He addresses Paul, digging something out from a pocket. "If you're up for it, we need a urine sample, want to check for kidney damage."

Paul takes the vial in shaking hands. "I'll just..."

"We'll wait here."

*-*-*-*-*

Paul stares at himself in the mirror, a pale scared man in borrowed clothes. The bruising is awful, and he touches his throat in pained wonder. He's suffered beatings before but it's never been quite this bad. Never come quite so close to... Well. Quite so close to finding out if St Peter would let him through those pearly gates despite his many failings.

This latest brush with mortality is an echo of his last; the same alcohol issues, the same shitty relationship with his father, even the same damned stick across his back. He's older, but apparently no wiser.

*-*-*-*-*

Paul's injuries are categorised and counted and listed on a sheet of paper that Hardy slips into his pocket, and he's released into Hardy's care to drive the last few minutes to Broadchurch and Hardy's home.

Paul doesn't question it. The vicarage is occupied, after all, and he has nowhere else to go.

He waits by the door as Hardy hurries around, shuffling paperwork off the sofa and into a stack on the floor. It's obvious that he hadn't exactly anticipated a guest, but the place is clean even if it's a bit messy. Hardy's thirty second whirlwind tidying makes Paul's head spin, and he briefly has to close his eyes. He's suddenly very aware that he's homeless. Again.

When he can face the world again, Alec's in front of him, looking awkward and uncomfortable

"Do you want - tea?"

Now he's not on the job any more, not on a case, he doesn't seem to know what to do with himself.

Paul shakes his head. "I just want to sleep. It's - God, it's one in the morning. I want to sleep, and I want to... forget about all this for a bit."

Hardy nods, once, sharply. "This way."

Paul's eyes are drifting closed again as Alec guides them through the little house.

He opens the door to a small bedroom, filled with dark blues and warm creams, and looks up at Paul.

"I changed the sheets yesterday, but I can swap them out if you want?"

Paul's suddenly aware that this is Hardy's bed, his sheets, his glass of water on one side of the double bed.

"I - no, Alec, I'll take the sofa."

Hardy looks at him seriously. "If you think for a second I'm letting you bleed all over my sofa-"

Paul can't help but snort out a laugh at Hardy's unimpressed expression. He stumbles towards the bed, sitting on the edge of it with a wince, still laughing, though it has an edge of hysteria.

In an instant laughter turns to tears, and he sobs into his palms as Hardy crouches at his feet, one hand on his unblemished calf as he whispers reassurances. It takes a long time for Paul's shoulders to finally stop shaking, though he's silenced himself long before then.

He lifts his head and looks accusingly at Hardy with red-rimmed eyes. "You did that on purpose."

"Aye. Now sleep, I'll get you water."

When Hardy returns, Paul is curled on his side under the covers, already asleep in the spare clothes Hardy had offered him. Silently, he places the fresh glass of water on the empty bedside cabinet, switching off the light as he leaves.

When Alec collapses on the sofa, curled up under a soft blanket, he's so exhausted he expects to be fast asleep in an instant, but somehow sleep evades him. All he can see is the bruising around Paul's neck and the stark red lines on his back where they'd peeled off his shirt and wiped away the blood.

Hardy eventually falls into a fitful sleep, chased under by thoughts of bruises and water and hospital beds.

*-*-*-*-*

It's still dark when Paul jerks awake, groaning a little as his back touches the mattress.

It takes him a minute to place where he is - well-washed cotton sheets, a smell of fabric softener and something warm and masculine. The heavy blanket is almost enough to lull him back to sleep, but a short sound catches his attention, and he realises it's what must have woken him in the first place. Moving slowly, half reluctant to be heard and half because his back feels like one enormous throbbing bruise, he makes his way to the door, listening carefully and treading silently.

Hearing nothing, he creeps down the hall, when a low, pained groan catches his attention

At the door of the living room he finds the source of the noise - Hardy's face is screwed up in what looks like pain, and there are harsh whimpers coming out through clenched teeth.

Paul debates with himself; he doesn't want to embarrass the man but he can't leave him like this. "Alec?" he calls softly.

It doesn't help, so he creeps forward, gently resting his hand on Hardy's shoulder.

Hardy's still trapped in the nightmare, so Paul rubs his thumb gently against the soft cotton t-shirt, back and forth, until eventually tense muscles go limp under his hand and Hardy turns his head to look up at him, bleary eyed.

Paul snatches his hand back. "You were having a nightmare."

Hardy coughs a little, and pushes himself upright. "It happens. You ok?"

"Yeah." He toys with adding, 'thanks to you', but somehow can't make himself say it.

There's a long moment of silence, before Paul nods firmly. "Good night."

"Night, Paul."

Something about the way the sleep-rumpled voice curls around his name makes Paul shiver, and he feels a little guilty for burying his head in the pillows of the bed - Alec's bed - and taking a deep breath of the scent there.


	5. Chapter 5

**Paul's past - Seven years ago - Twenty six years old**

It takes him a few attempts to stop drinking. His first time, after his first meeting at the Catholic church, it sticks for nearly a year, long enough for him to start training as a vicar.

He drifts into it again, two years into being a curate. It's easy to fall into old habits, particularly when the senior priest at the church scolds him harshly for the tiniest of mistakes, and when his concerns about one of the older children are ignored. It's easier to joke with the youth group when he's had a drink, easier to ignore the boy who flinches when he comes too close, easier to sleep at night when he has an idea what's going on. Easier to take a joke a little too far. Easier to deal with the police interview.

**Present day**

When Alec wakes up late the next morning, he can faintly hear Paul's snoring. The man must be exhausted.

He sticks bread in the toaster and leans against the side, burying his head in his hands.

"Fucking hell," he groans into his palms. It's too early to contemplate the fact he has a wounded ex-vicar collapsed in his bed.

Paul's still asleep when the toast has gone, and Hardy can feel the fear-sweat dried on his skin from the day before, so he throws himself in the shower.

He's quick, though by the time he's out the snoring has stopped. Towel wrapped around his waist, he pokes his head round the door to check on the younger man. "Paul?" He whispers, "You awake?"

"Alec?"

The light flicks on and Paul squints at him.

Hardy's suddenly bright pink, all the way from his ears halfway down his furred chest, far too aware of the towel wrapped around his waist. It's been a long time since he's been this bare in front of anyone who isn't a doctor.

Paul stares at him, half asleep, then seems to register the situation and blushes too, looking away.

"There's - toast and - coffee -" Hardy says in a strangled voice, before bailing.

"Um. Thanks." Paul calls after him.

Once Hardy's dressed - fortunately there was a heap of clean laundry, so he didn't have to dig around in cupboards while Paul lay in bed, though the shirt is unironed - and suitably repressed the whole traumatic experience, Paul's made it to the kitchen.

He's found herbal tea, and toast as well, and Hardy's glad he's managed to function enough to feed himself; the spaced out person he'd had in his car hadn't seemed capable of even eating anything, never mind making toast and tracking down jam.

Paul pushes his empty plate away and stares down at the table where his hands are interlinked. "You, uh - you've been very kind to let me stay here. After you came and got me, as well. You didn't have to do that."

"Don't worry about it." Hardy's gruff, ignoring Paul's sentiment as he busies himself tidying away detritus.

"No, you - came all the way - and my father - " Paul stumbles over his words.

"Don't _worry_ about it."

"I didn't know he was going to be like that. I thought -" Paul swallows. "I thought he'd changed. I thought _I'd_ changed."

Hardy freezes for a long second, then blinks back to life. "They don't change."

Paul's head jerks up.

Hardy folds his arms, leaning on the fridge. "You can borrow my clothes. There's spare towels in the bathroom."

Paul's open mouthed, looking at Alec with wide eyes. "You -"

"Just... go shower. We can talk about what to do next afterwards."

Mute, Paul pushes his chair back and does as he's told, stumbling stiffly down the corridor and into the bathroom.

Shit. He hadn't meant to make that an order, not like that. Paul's a victim, not a subordinate to be commanded.

He runs a hand through his hair. Too late now. Trying not to think too hard, he tracks down his first aid kit - woefully empty, just a half packet of painkillers, a handful of dry curling plasters and a single strip of gauze - and realises a trip to the pharmacy's in order.

He doesn't hear the shower, so it's a surprise when he hears footsteps and looks up to find Paul walking down the corridor, clad in jogging bottoms and an enormous cream knitted jumper Hardy had been given umpteen years before by some misguided relative but never been able to bring himself to wear. Towel dry hair lies limp against his forehead and the bruising on his neck has started to turn from vivid red and purple into stormcloud blue. He looks very young, and very vulnerable, and Hardy feels a sudden pang in his chest that has nothing to do with heart condition or anxiety.

"I borrowed a comb as well, I hope that's alright."

"Fine."

"I, uh, didn't have a proper shower, I'm not supposed to get the stitches wet for a while."

Whoops. Hardy had forgotten that part of the instructions. Not a great start for a nurse's first day on the job. He nods, not quite sure what to say, and opts for a half-change of topic. "I'm out of bandages, we'll need more for your dressings."

Paul looks suddenly stricken. "I - I don't have my wallet."

"I've got it. Don't worry."

"You can't keep doing this."

"I won't. Just till you're back on your feet." Hardy eyes him critically. "Go and sit down."

Paul wavers for a minute, but he's exhausted already and it shows. The sofa is too appealing to be denied.

When Hardy finds him a few minutes later, he's perched on the edge of the sofa, flipping through tv channels, looking unsettled. His hair has started to dry, rising into unruly scruff.

"Want anything from town?"

"I'm fine."

As Hardy drives the short distance into the town centre he can hear the church bells chiming for the end of the morning service, pealing out into the gloomy autumn air.

*-*-*-*-*

When the front door opens, Paul's on full alert, jerking half off the sofa despite the pain in his back, though he knows it's unlikely to be his father. Hardy's low greeting is reassuring, and the rustle of carrier bags suggests he's stopped at more than just the pharmacy. The detective pokes his head into the living room, giving him a quick assessing look.

There's an empty bottle of whisky on the floor, a stupid clumsy mistake, one Paul wouldn't have made if he wasn't injured and exhausted. He catches the exact moment Hardy notices it and their gazes meet, Alec's shoulders slumping as he sighs. "I'm sorry. I should have thought."

Paul can feel his face heating up, anger and shame warring for dominance. "I'm an adult, I can control my own drinking!"

"Aye, you're an adult, but you're not well." Hardy's eyes are soft, and that's almost worse than shouting. "I'll put them away."

"It was just one-"

He interrupts, firm voice level. "We both know it won't just be one, and I don't want to put temptation in your way. It's fine. I don't go in for it much either."

Paul trudges after him into the kitchen, watching sullenly as he puts the full shopping bags onto the table and pulls wine bottles and a half-drunk bottle of gin from the cupboard that had supplied the whisky. "Miller will be pleased, anyway." He offers Paul a tentative smile.

"You won't tell her..."

"She doesn't know you're here, and I won't tell her anything until you want me to. You put that away, I won't be long."

He looks blankly after Hardy as he heads away down the corridor, bag clinking. The second bottle burns a hole in his pocket. _Lead us not into temptation_ , he thinks, and starts to empty out the shopping.

*-*-*-*-*

Hardy pulls out of the drive, carrier bag rolling in the passenger seat footwell, and as soon as he's out of sight of his house he pulls over and promptly tumbles headfirst into his second panic attack of twenty four hours.

Of course Paul went for the alcohol, why didn't he have the sense to get rid of it? He's not set up for this, dealing with trauma and injuries and bloody relapses to boot. There's no way this can end well, it's already a disaster. If he hadn't been so nosy, if he hadn't crashed the party, if he hadn't called, then perhaps Jerry Coates wouldn't have snapped, Paul would still be at home and he wouldn't be injured and traumatised and _drunk_ on his sofa.

He grants himself the dubious luxury of indulging in the panicked thoughts for the stretch of two songs on the radio, biting at the curl of his fist, before forcing himself to slow his breathing. It's easier than it might have been; last night's pills are still swimming in his system, and the app Daisy downloaded for him over the summer gives him a carefully measured count of breaths in and out.

When he's finally settled he sets off again, driving slower than normal to compensate for nerves shattered by the last twenty four hours.

At Ellie Miller's door, he clutches the bag and rings the doorbell. There's an incoherent shout from inside and he waits patiently for her to open the door, hair disheveled and a smudge of chalk on her cheek, wiping her hands on a towel. "Art time with Fred," she says by way of explanation.

He holds out the carrier bag abruptly. Ellie peers into it and makes a surprised but pleased sound when she spots the wine.

"What did I do to deserve this then?" She thinks for a moment, then gives him a skeptical eyebrow. "Actually what did _you_ do that means I deserve this?"

"Don't start," he scowls, rolling his eyes.

At his low effort repartee she takes a closer look at him. "You alright? You look awful."

"Tell it like it is, Miller, why don't you?"

"Someone has to."

He grumbles halfheartedly at her but she's already herding him into the kitchen, kettle on and a pack of chocolate digestives torn open, and before he knows it he's fidgeting with the string of the teabag and brushing crumbs from the weave of his jumper.

She settles across the table from him and gives him a carefully measured gaze. "What's going on?"

"Can't talk about it."

"Ok, that's stupid, tell me."

"I can't, Miller!"

"Is it Daisy? You've been off for weeks now, holed up in your office, and I think Fred's forgotten what you look like."

He's suddenly hit by a rush of gratitude, for her observational skills and her friendship and her relentlessly dragging him into her life.

"It's not Daisy, it's not me. It's nothing."

"Is it Paul?"

" _Miller!_ "

"I knew it!" She looks triumphant at her own detective skills as Hardy groans and wraps his hands around the back of his head, dragging himself down until he can rest his elbows on the table. A second biscuit slides between the sharp bones and he seizes on it, snapping it in two and nibbling on the smaller half.

"I promised him I wouldn't say anything."

"You didn't." She bites into her own biscuit, crunching enthusiastically. "I guessed. You didn't say a word."

He nods at the bag. "Call that a bribe, then. For keeping quiet."

"Two cheap bottles of wine and... half a bottle of gin? You spoil me, sir." She takes in the slightly desperate look on his face and relents. "I won't say anything."

Hardy huffs out a grateful sigh.

When the tea's gone, and a third biscuit - Ellie Miller is an extraordinarily bad influence - she leads him to the front door, though he more than knows the way. "If you need anything, or Paul needs anything, ring me. Don't go getting all... Sandbrook on me"

He wants to protest but knows it'll do him no good at all, so just nods.

She squeezes his arm gently, as much contact as he'll usually accept, but in a brief moment of madness he leans down and pulls her into a hug, nose pressed into her curls. She makes a brief noise of surprise but doesn't hesitate before wrapping her own arms around his back, making the most of it.

When he steps back she shakes his head. "I don't know what's got into you. Think you're getting soft in your old age." The grin she offers him is fond, taking the sting from her words, but he still gives her a half-hearted scowl as he tugs open the front door.

"See you tomorrow, Miller."

*-*-*-*-*

Paul's asleep on the sofa when he returns, curled on his side under a blanket as the TV flickers.

The shopping's neatly put away, bandages and various medical supplies left in a neat stack on the table. There's case files to go through, chores to be done, but instead he swaps his shoes for slippers and settles at the kitchen table with the newspaper and lunch.

A few hours later he hears the sound of Paul stirring in the lounge, and leans over to flick on the kettle.

Paul appears in the doorway, oversized jumper dragged to one side and bed head giving him a lopsided look, though he ruffles his hair self consciously.

"You sobered up?"

Paul looks guilty. "Think so. Sorry."

"Want me to drive you to a meeting?"

He sighs and leans against the doorway, head hanging low. "Yes, and no. I need to go but, um, not looking like this." He reaches up as though to touch his neck, but barely brushes the dark skin. "I'll ring my sponsor instead." He winces. "Ah, can I use your phone?"

Hardy meets his nervous gaze calmly. "Phone, shower, food, whatever. Don't feel y'have to ask."

He leaves Paul to it in the kitchen. When the younger man emerges, he's red eyed but looks like there's been a weight lifted off his shoulders.

"Thanks. I might meet him in a couple of days."

"Good." It doesn't feel like quite the right time, but this is the sort of conversation there isn't really a good time for. "Can we talk about what happened?"

Paul's face tightens. "Do we have to?"

"Not today, if you're not up for it, but soon. While it's fresh." Hardy pauses. "I don't have to take your statement if you don't want me to, Miller would -"

"Wait, wait, statement? No, I'm not giving a _statement_ , I'm not reporting this!"

Hardy steps closer but Paul flinches back before closing his eyes briefly in mute apology. "Paul, last time I saw someone with bruises like yours, it was Danny Latimer."

That's only partly the truth; Danny's skin had never turned so dark. It had never had the chance to develop the deep colouring that marrs Paul's neck.

Hardy regrets his words in an instant as Paul sways and puts out a hand to grab the wall. "Shit. Come on, sit down." He meant the sofa but instead Paul's knees fold and he sinks to the ground, blank eyed gaze low.

"I didn't-" Paul swallows, "He's never... the cane, but not..."

Hardy's knees creak as he joins Paul on the ground. He's not sure if it's better to be hidden to take off the pressure or in his eyeline to avoid the anxiety of a potential hidden assailant. Eventually he decides to shuffle back to lean against the wall and wait for Paul to gather himself. He does, eventually, taking a handful of deep breaths. He doesn't turn around, and Alec doesn't speak.

"After you rang he, ah, spent the day fuming. Told me he wouldn't have my 'boyfriend' calling me up and embarrassing him at parties." He snorts a little.

Boyfriend? He hadn't realised Coates was gay - or bisexual perhaps, given Becca. He doesn't comment.

"Told him you weren't my boyfriend. That it shouldn't matter anyway. He didn't like being corrected, never has. Put his hands - tried - grabbed my neck." He swallows loud enough that Hardy can hear it. "Squeezed. I tried to get him off but -" His back heaves once, twice.

Hardy leans forward to touch his arm, expecting him to flinch away, but instead Paul places a trembling hand over his, wrapping it around his bicep. He's careful not to grip, wary of Jerry's penchant for grabbing, but Paul seems to draw strength from him.

"He left me there on the floor. Came back with the stick. I don't know why he stopped, I couldn't - I didn't - I just _lay_ there."

Alec rubs his thumb slowly over Paul's arm, where icy fingers hold him close. "You've been very brave, telling me." He feels like he's speaking to a child.

Paul laughs, bitter. "Should never have asked you to come to that party."

The guilt surges in his gut, but he resists the urge to apologise.

"Should never have gone back." Paul's head drops to his knees and a sob rattles through the air. "I just wanted..." He drifts off into silence, injured back shaking, and his fingers clench spasmodically around Hardy's hand. "I'm sorry," he chokes out, "I'm sorry."

"It's ok," Hardy whispers, the same way he soothes Daisy when she's crying over school or boys or her divorced parents. "It's ok, shh, it's ok." He awkwardly shuffles closer, close enough that if he dared, if Paul allowed it, he could have placed an arm around his shoulders. He doesn't dare, but eventually Paul's shoulders stop shaking and he releases Hardy's hand to scrub both hands over his face with a groan.

"Sorry," he says again, giving Hardy a damp half smile. "Didn't mean to get upset."

"It's fine." Hardy's voice catches, and he has to cough a little to clear his throat, meeting Paul's gaze with intense dark eyes. "You don't have anything to be sorry about." He realises his hand is still wrapped around the younger man's arm and snatches it back, rubbing it absentmindedly.

Paul shakes his head, clearly not buying it, and uncurls enough that he can stagger upwards, though he has to grit his teeth. "Might take some painkillers, my back is killing me. And my head."

Hardy unfolds, stiff from a night on the sofa and long minutes on the floor. "Food first." He doesn't mention that he noticed Paul's lack of lunch. Taking in the pained expression on Paul's face, he adds, "At least some juice."

Paul obediently downs a glass of orange juice, grimacing at the pulpy bits at the end and the way it sits in his unsteady stomach, and swallows the medication before easing himself into a chair.

Hardy thinks about writing down Paul's statement, picking through his trauma, but he can't quite bring himself to do it, instead starting on dinner. He busies himself around the kitchen, pulling things from the fridge, chopping vegetables and generally keeping himself busy. Paul gives him a few minutes before speaking up. "Can I help?"

"Shit - you're not vegetarian, are you?"

"No. No allergies, either."

"You'll eat a beef stir fry? Not too spicy."

"Sounds good," and Paul actually sounds quite enthusiastic.

Paul seems to have forgotten his offer of help, much to Hardy's relief - he's never been used to working with someone else in the kitchen, seems odd to start now. When Hardy looks over, he's flicking idly through the newspaper.

"Dinner's going to be a little while. I have ice packs, might help the bruising."

Paul's eagerness tells him that the over the counter painkillers aren't up for the job.

He pulls the packs from the freezer and hands them over, but Paul can't contort his aching body enough to put them where they need to be, and he doesn't have enough hands for them anyway. Instead, they make an awkward slow procession upstairs to Hardy's bedroom, the bed neatly made. Paul tugs at the baggy jumper, pulling it up a little, but he's stiffer than he was this morning - or less motivated to push through the pain - and he lets go with a wince. "I'll just roll it up."

Hardy, standing back with the ice packs and tea towels to wrap them, shakes his head and dumps them on the floor. "Here. I've got it."

Hands gentle and movements slow, he pulls the jumper over Paul's arms, one sleeve at a time, then bundles it up to lift it up and over his head. It might have felt like undressing a toddler, if Paul wasn't nearly six feet tall and blushing furiously. The t-shirt underneath is worn thin; obviously he'd dug through the bottom of the drawers to find things Hardy wouldn't miss too much.

Paul splays himself across the bed, face down, and cautiously pulls the T-shirt higher to reveal his injuries, wriggling a little to release the fabric.

His back looks awful. The welts have swollen, bruising deep and black where they had previously been angry red; the handful of stitches look tight, and the gauze over the areas that were split and swollen too wide to be stitched is darkened where the wounds have wept.

"I'm going to put it on your shoulder first, is that ok?"

"Fine." He can hear that Paul's gritting his teeth already, and he flinches away from the chilled pack as Alec eases it down but then forces himself still.

Four neatly wrapped ice packs later, Paul looks ridiculous, but the blush on his face has faded to grim paleness again. He hadn't made a sound of complaint.

"I'll come and get you when dinner's ready?"

"Thank you," Paul whispers, and closes his eyes. For an insomniac he certainly spends a lot of time sleeping, Hardy thinks, though it's relieved rather than judgemental.

He resists the urge to brush down the unruly curl of hair that sits at the nape of Paul's neck.

*-*-*-*-*

The next morning is much the same, a slow start with tea and toast at the kitchen table, both men carrying heavy bags under their eyes, but as the clock ticks towards 9am Paul frowns and breaks the comfortable silence. "It's Monday, don't you have work?"

"Called in sick." And texted Miller to tell her not to worry, he's not sick, it's just the situation they discussed at the weekend. If she seriously thought he'd taken a day off sick she'd probably have assumed the worst and started planning his funeral - or perhaps sharpening up her application for DI.

"You didn't have to do that, I'll be fine." Admittedly he's been throwing up half the night from alcohol withdrawal, but it's not half as bad as previous detoxes have been; Jerry Coates might have been an awful father but he was surprisingly good at keeping track of his expensive bottles of whisky. Mostly.

"Aye, I know."

They drop back into silence. Hardy's half reading the paper and half keeping an eye on Paul, who looks uncomfortable though he's already taken painkillers.

"Alec?"

"Hmm?"

"If I shower, would you mind, uh, helping with the bandages again? I need to take them off, and put them back on after. And I can't dry my back." Paul looks hopeful but also like he's trying very hard not to snatch his words out of the air, bundle them back down with the rest of his shame.

Hardy doesn't give it a second thought. "Yeah."

Paul stares at him for a long moment, before stuttering out a clumsy thanks.

"Now?"

"Please."

The two of them squeeze into the upstairs bathroom, trying to avoid eye contact, although that backfires a little when Paul catches Alec's eyes in the mirror and he gives the ex-vicar a wry half-smile, acknowledging the awkwardness of the whole situation. Paul ducks his head, and when he next looks up the smile is gone.

Peeling off the shirt, he stands shivering in the cool room, wishing he'd thought to turn on the shower to heat it up a little first. He jumps when Hardy reaches past him to twist on the water, instinctively apologising.

"It's fine. Turn around."

He can feel Alec's eyes on his skin, and tucks his hands across his chest to hide as much of himself as possible. It's almost unbearable, being so exposed in front of a man who's faced down murderers and rapists, and he wants to hang his head in shame. He wishes Hardy would show the slightest sign of weakness, the slightest hint that it isn't just Paul who feels like he's perpetually falling apart, but there's not a single suggestion of it behind Hardy's eyes, just a cold and steady assessment.

It's the first time Hardy's had a chance to look at Paul shirtless without there being an immediate need to categorise his injuries or otherwise treat them, and he's suddenly aware this is the most naked a stranger has been in this house since he bought it. He has to fight back a blush, but as Paul covers his chest self-consciously and turns around, he mentally kicks himself. It's entirely inappropriate to be focussing on that, when Paul's so very vulnerable - barely two days ago the man was being beaten to within an inch of his life, he has more important things to worry about than the possibility of Hardy getting all handsy, or worse, upset.

He steels himself, briefly catching Paul's eyes again in the mirror, and settles in to peel off the taped gauze he'd carefully placed the night before.

*-*-*-*-*

Paul tugs on jogging bottoms before leaving the bedroom, chest dry but back still damp. He feels much better for a proper shower; the strip wash he'd taken the day before hadn't quite washed away the scent of hospital and fear from his skin. He's probably used up all the hot water, and his back feels uncomfortably tight with additional swelling from the heat, but it's worth it for the lightness he feels simmering under his skin. Like he might finally have started washing away something that's lingered in his pores for months.

Rubbing his hair dry, he finds Hardy settled on the sofa amongst the blankets he's been sleeping in, glasses perched on his nose as he scans through files. The detective looks up with a start, eyes briefly flickering down Paul's chest as he registers his lack of shirt before refocusing on his face. Suddenly aware of his scruffy appearance, Paul pulls the towel back down from his hair, tucking it around his shoulders.

Don't need to feel so self conscious, he scolds himself, he doesn't care what you look like. He's not exactly going to jump you.

"Kitchen?"

Better than the bed, where last night Hardy had bandaged him up between applications of ice packs, their stomachs still full of dinner, and he'd drifted off to the feel of strong hands pressing carefully against his skin.

He straddles a chair, leaning against the back of it. "I feel like I'm playing at being a cop," he jokes, and Hardy snorts.

"I've never sat like that in my life. Now, I'll pat your skin dry, then the cream, then bandages."

He's pretty sure Hardy knows what he's doing and it's just a reminder, a warning, for him, but he appreciates the effort.

"Say if it hurts."

"Mm."

The press of the towel is soft against his warmed, oversensitive skin. He doesn't say when it hurts, because it hurts all the time, but he doesn't mention when the pain gets worse either, though Hardy still seems to pick up on it and gentles his hands with a murmured apology.

By the time they're through his jaw aches from clenching, and he wilts in relief when Hardy pats his bicep. "All done."

Hardy's vanished into the living room before Paul can thank him.

*-*-*-*-*

They spend the day in peaceful silence, Paul reading a book he'd picked up from Hardy's surprisingly well populated bookshelves, Hardy working on case files. They sit in the living room, Paul on the chair and Hardy on the sofa, retreating to the kitchen for the occasional hushed phone call, though he's firm enough once or twice that Paul can hear him through the door. It seems to mostly be arguing with Ellie, though he never looks angry when he settles back to his files; occasionally satisfied, mostly pensive, settling in with renewed vigour.

That evening, dinner eaten and plates washed - Paul's doing, at his insistence - Hardy flicks on the TV, settling in to some nature program that fortunately doesn't have too many gory bits.

In an ad break, Paul speaks up. "I'll, uh, I'll take the sofa. Tonight." He won't have Hardy squeezing his six-foot-and-change frame on there another night, not when he's being so generous.

"No need - I gave Daisy a call, she doesn't mind me using hers."

"Oh." The wind's taken out of Paul's sails by that. "Um, good."

Hardy eyes him briefly across the room. "If you're up for it I can drive us into town tomorrow and y'can get some clothes." It's said very casually, but Paul feels panic flutter in his gut. It's no big deal, just a bit of shopping, but the thought of people staring as he wanders through a shop is intimidating.

"Or I can pick something up for you on the way home. Just t-shirts, boxers." He adds, with a faint smirk, "Maybe some trousers, though I won't be seen dead buying your skinny jeans."

Paul tries not to seize on that offer too eagerly. "Yes - that would be - please."

"Alright." Hardy doesn't seem bothered by that at all, but Paul feels suddenly ashamed.

He retreats to the bedroom, returning with his hands behind his back to stand in front of Hardy, shifting nervously.

The detective looks up from his files, blinks, and takes off his glasses.

"I, ah. I took this. Before." Not making eye contact, Paul holds out the stolen bottle of whisky.

Hardy looks at it for a long time then glances back at Paul's face, where he's resolutely looking away, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "I thought I got all of it."

"When I took the - the first one. I - just in case." He can feel his arm sagging, and thrusts the bottle out again.

Slowly, Hardy reaches out to take it from him. Their fingers brush on the exchange, just a little, warm flesh a contrast to cold glass.

"I'm - bed," Paul says in a strangled voice, whirling away.

Behind him he hears a rustle of files. "Goodnight, Paul."


	6. Chapter 6

Paul spends most of his time sleeping, drifting between the bed and the living room where he curls in the blankets and rests his eyes on daytime TV. It's nearly a week after his injury before he can even walk without stiffness; he still has to take care with his movement and the thought of carelessly slinging a backpack on top of the deep blue-purple bruises and scabbing wounds makes him wince.

The worst of the withdrawal symptoms have faded too, mostly reduced to lingering anxiety and occasional nausea, though he's not sure how much he can blame his nightmares on the alcohol versus the trauma of the last six months. His insomnia is, for once, mostly held at bay by pure physical exhaustion.

"I was thinking," Hardy says casually over Saturday morning breakfast, and Paul raises a teasing eyebrow, though the man ignores his jibe, "We could pop up to Gloucester today."

Paul's gut sinks, the slight hint of levity vanishing. "No, no way." He's not going back, not again. He can't bear to face his father, even if Alec mistakenly thinks he has some need for _closure_ or whatever his reasoning is.

"We can get your passport, birth certificate, any other paperwork. Your bank cards, though they should come through here soon. Some more clothes." Nothing so foolish as closure, then, just pure practicalities. Alec's Scottish burr is kind, reassuring. "We'll be your escort, keep him back, you won't even have to see him if you don't want to."

"We?"

"Miller's coming." He flashes a half hearted smile. "She's good at giving a bollocking."

"She knows, then." Paul's heart is heavy. The thought of being gossip fodder, of everyone knowing he's been assaulted by his last remaining family member, is just another cruelty.

"She knows I need to borrow her, and she guessed it's about you. That's it. She won't ask questions if you don't want to talk. And she doesn't gossip, you know that." How Hardy identified that fear, he doesn't know, although he supposes he's been on the wrong end of it before as well. Paul shivers. It's a good idea, but the thought of being back in that house...

Hardy picks up on his wavering. "We'll be with you the whole time."

Paul folds. It would be nice to have some of his own clothes back, it seems wrong to just be borrowing Hardy's - and ones Hardy's bought him - as well as eating his food and taking his bed.

"Good. I've got a scarf you can wear, keep your bruises hidden, if you want."

*-*-*-*-*

Hardy's confirmation text summons Miller to his home, and when he opens the door to her she looks up at him with worried eyes. "How is he?"

"Nervous. Sore."

"Sore?"

"His back. His neck. Nothing life threatening now."

He winces when _now_ makes her frown. He hadn't meant to let that slip out. "He's fine. Just be nice."

"I'm always nice, not like _you_." Her words are sharp but she looks worried as she heads inside.

Paul's sat at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of tea. He's not wearing the scarf and Miller gasps at the sight of him, the bruises on his neck reaching the darkest stages and finally starting to turn a bilious yellow-green at the edges.

" _Paul._ "

She sounds like she might cry.

"Hi Ellie. How've you been?" Hardy can practically see the clerical collar settling into place.

"I - fine, but you-" She splutters, then seems to gather herself. "I've been good. Fred's enjoying school."

"Good."

There's silence.

Miller fiddles with her bag, biting her lip. She shoots a quick glance at Hardy then back at Paul. "Can I _please_ give you a hug?"

Paul's face twists, and he ducks his head.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have - you don't have to -"

Paul lifts a hand to his face, maybe brushing away a tear, then looks up. Hardy's relieved to see he's smiling, a shy grin that looks sincere if a little worn around the edges. "I'd love a hug."

She's careful, resting her arms lightly around Paul's back, aware of the tension thrumming through him, but he has no such restraint, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing her tight.

"It's good to see you," he whispers.

"You're ok?"

"Getting there."

*-*-*-*-*

The drive to Gloucester goes quickly, Miller happy to fill the car with tales of Tom and Fred, Hardy contributing with the wild, and hopefully exaggerated, stories he's heard back from Daisy about her university. They don't talk about what's happened; Paul doesn't feel like sharing and Hardy seems to understand that if Miller knows then she'll struggle to hold herself back as soon as she faces Coates senior, though she's not a detective for nothing and certainly has a good idea of the situation.

Paul sits in the back, silent, and as they get closer he tugs up the scarf and sinks lower in his seat.

When they pull up to the gates of the house Miller lets out a long, low whistle. Hardy shoots her a look. "I'll go in, get Coates out of the way. You take Paul upstairs. We'll all stay calm, speak up if we need something, be done in ten minutes. Alright?"

Miller shakes her head. "Better if it's me, sir. I don't know what's gone on but I don't think he's going to be happy to see you. I'm just an impartial observer." Her expression gives the lie to her words - she looks like she's going into battle - but it's a good idea, and Hardy nods.

"And if he's a shit, I'll smack him."

"I already did that."

"You what?"

Paul's as shocked as Ellie, both of them staring at him with incredulous frowns.

"Oh, hah - you missed that. Long story, tell you on the way back."

"I'm _definitely_ handling him."

At the door, Miller greets a scowling Jerry Coates with a badge and a haughty tilt of her chin that suggests _don't try anything funny with me, sunshine_. They eventually step inside and Miller gives the car a quick nod.

*-*-*-*-*

He can see Paul's hands shaking as they climb the stairs, but Miller's doing her job well and there's no sign of Coates. The bedroom door is still unlocked, everything the way it was, though the blood on the chair has darkened to an ugly brown.

Paul grabs two bags from a cupboard then stares bewildered at the room. Seeing his confusion, Hardy steps forward. "Paperwork. Where is it?"

"Uh... Top drawer," and Hardy dives to it, flipping through a couple of folders to drag out passport and birth certificate, plus a handful of other things that look important. He piles them on the bed with the phone and wallet from the bedside table. Paul hasn't moved, but when Hardy sees the expression on his face he can't find it in him to chastise him; he's had that expression on his own face too many times to count.

"Paul. Sit down, deep breaths."

"I'm alright."

He's not, any idiot could see that, but he can probably be of some help.

"Get trousers and jumpers, a coat if you have one up here."

Somehow Paul manages to stir himself, pulling out his favourites, soft jumpers and cardigans and easy iron shirts; skinny jeans and comfortable shoes. None of them have been worn since he left Broadchurch, and seeing them makes him want to cry, though he forces the urge back down.

He has underwear at home, Hardy picked some up in the week much to their mutual embarrassment, so that drawer gets mostly left.

"Shame to leave the tux," Hardy says, holding out the suit bag with his eyebrows raised.

Paul eyes it. On one hand he doesn't want anything his father bought him to leave with him today; on the other it was a _very_ nice suit. Eventually he nods, and it goes on the pile, along with a couple of other pieces from the wardrobe. Not many.

"That it? Everything important, everything you want?"

"I think so."

Though there is one thing, stashed away at the back of the wardrobe as though it sits at the entrance to Narnia.

He puts the empty silver flask on top of the pile of clothes. Hardy gives him a long, level look, then shrugs in a way that says _it's your funeral_.

Paul doesn't want to explain that it's a reminder, or at least it usually is, of his mother, bought and inscribed soon after her diagnosis and gifted to him on his eighteenth birthday. The sight of it makes him strong, until he's weakened past the point of no return, and then it's a reminder that somewhere she's waiting for him.

When they shove the clothes in the bag, the flask goes in with everything else.

Hardy picks up the bags, ignoring Paul's stuttering confusion, and nods at the folder of papers. "You carry that."

Paul feels silly as he walks behind a loaded down Hardy, but at the same time he's glad the bags aren't on his shoulders.

At the bottom of the stairs they can hear shouting, and Hardy scowls, though Paul can see his trepidation.

Miller's voice is suddenly clear - "One more step and I'll bloody well arrest you!"

Paul snorts, though it's hardly a laughing matter, and Hardy nods at the door. "Go on, out."

He nods and hurries away clutching the car keys and the lighter of the bags, relieved that he can lock himself away and put the radio on.

Inside, Hardy drops the other bag and follows the shouting, where he finds Miller standing in a doorway with her hands on her hips, looking like it would take an army to move her. Jerry Coates is certainly no army, and his spitting fury is impotent against her, for all that she's a head shorter.

"Miller," he calls, and gives her a head jerk that communicates _we're done, let's go_. It's a motion she's well used to now, though at first it had felt rude.

" _You_ ," Coates hisses, and Hardy belatedly takes in his swollen lip. Nothing near the extent of Paul's injuries, but then Hardy isn't a pompous little shit who likes beating people up.

"Aye, me."

He doesn't bother elaborating.

When he reaches the front door, he's horrified to find Paul standing in the chill winter air.

He looks surprisingly calm.

Hardy turns to stop Jerry from coming any further, but it's too late, he's already looming at his shoulder.

"Paul," Jerry says, and his son blinks at him. "You came back. "

The anger has faded, replaced with a suggestion of happiness and relief, but Paul's words soon twist it into distaste.

"Not for long. I'm leaving and I won't come back."

"Don't be overdramatic, this is your home. You have to come back." He seems a little bewildered by Paul's steady denial.

Paul shakes his head, and with trembling fingers unwraps the borrowed scarf from his neck, revealing the yellow-black-purple stain on his skin.

"You think I'd come back? After this?" Jerry looks stricken, transfixed by the damage. "You nearly killed me."

"I didn't... I... I was trying to help you! To set you on the right path! Away from drinking and-" he gestured wildly at Hardy "-and _men_! You're my son, I just want you to do the right thing!"

"Nothing about what you did was right! If you loved me, you'd see that."

"Paul-" and Jerry reaches out, grabbing for Paul's wrist just as he must have done a week ago. The detectives step forward to intervene but Paul's already yanked his hand out of reach.

" _God_ loves me, and I don't think He cares who I love. Nor would Mum, she'd just want me to be happy." He shrugs, though his lip curls a little with the pain of it. "I'm not happy here. I've not been happy here since she died, and I won't _ever_ be happy here. Not with you."

"Paul-"

Paul shakes his head. "No. Goodbye, Dad."

Hardy steps between them again as Paul pointedly turns away, not wanting to risk a final assault sending Paul tumbling, but Jerry seems to have deflated and he stands there, slumped, as they load the last bag in the car and start the long drive back home.

*-*-*-*-*

By the time they get back to Broadchurch, the early winter night has drawn in, and the streetlights guide them back to Hardy's house.

Ellie twists around to smile at Paul. "Pizza? My treat?"

He shakes his head and she looks disappointed. "No - my treat. I've got my wallet back, I'll buy."

She brightens back up at that. "Only if I can get cheesy garlic bread."

"No cheese," Hardy says firmly.

"You're not buying, you don't get an opinion."

They're carried inside by the easy bickering, Paul letting it wash over him. He doesn't quite feel at home in his body, his limbs too long and his fingers faintly numb, but he's settled in his armchair with a glass of water without really registering any intermediate steps.

When the pizza arrives, Paul hands Hardy his wallet, feigning interest in the TV. It doesn't seem to faze the man, but Paul feels guilty for it, for not wanting to face anyone he might have known in Broadchurch. The stack of cardboard boxes is enough for him to briefly forget his worries, the three of them digging in with gusto.

Hardy pulls the cheese off his garlic bread with a delicate moue of distaste, dumping it back in the box. Ellie picks up the greasy lump and eats it whole, much to his outraged disgust. It feels like a well worn dance, both of them falling into old patterns, and it makes Paul want to duck away. He feels like he's intruding.

They watch an old film, and it's odd watching Hardy be so relaxed. He smiles more in that evening than he has the whole time Paul's stayed with him.

By the time the film ends, the two detectives are asleep, slumped together on the sofa with her head on his shoulder. Alec's glasses are askew, his mouth dropped open a little. Ellie's making little snuffling noises, half huffs under her breath.

He envies them their hard earned, comfortable friendship, or whatever it is.

He considers just going to bed, but the thought of lying there in the dark waiting for sleep he knows won't come is too unpleasant. Instead, he drags on his shoes and finds the keys.

He can feel the chill coming under the front door, and it's a thrilling feeling to be able to get his own coat out of the bags liberated from his father's house. It's comfortable and comforting as it settles in his shoulders. He tugs on gloves too, and Hardy's loaned scarf, though he has his own now, somewhere in the bags.

He closes the door as quietly as possible, easing it shut.

When he creeps through the door hours later, Ellie's gone and Alec's still sleeping, glasses neatly folded on the table and a blanket pulled up to his shoulders. His hair's tousled, and Paul has a sudden urge to brush it aside, to press a kiss on the forehead so often creased in a frown.

He feels himself take a half step forward, but manages to stop himself from making a really stupid mistake.

"Alec."

Hardy jerks awake with a snort, one arm coming up defensively before he slumps back down onto the sofa.

"What, ah, what time is it?"

"After three. Thought you'd given up sleeping on the sofa."

Paul notes, guiltily, that Hardy's hand is shaking, pulse jumping in his throat, and belatedly remembers the man's heart issues.

"Sorry, shouldn't have woken you."

"'s fine. Miller gone?" His voice is low and gravelly with sleep.

"I think so." Paul hesitates. "I went out; didn't know if you wanted alone time, and I couldn't sleep anyway."

"Alone time? Get enough of that stuck in the car with her."

"No, I meant... Couple time."

"Oh." Hardy sighs heavily, puffing his cheeks out.

"I, ah, won't tell anyone."

"It's not like that."

"Sorry, no. Of course." Of course Hardy wouldn't trust him with his secret. They might have lived together for a week, but they hardly know each other.

"Paul, really-"

He is abruptly weary beyond belief. "I'm tired. I walked too far. I'll see you tomorrow."

They don't mention it the next day - their conversation, or Paul's insomnia-fueled late night stroll - or on Monday morning, though the time passes comfortably enough, both of them settling into what's fast becoming a routine of breakfast together, case files for Hardy and a book mixed with napping for Paul. Hardy's off to work anyway, after the awkward process of reapplying bandages, though Paul's mostly healed and it'll only be another few days before it's just scabs and bruising.

He's left alone with the bookshelves and a fridge full of food. The only thing missing from the house is bread, the last of it polished off on Sunday. He contemplates just snacking all day, cheese and crackers and maybe a bowl of cereal, but the thought isn't particularly tempting.

In a sudden burst of bold energy, damning his previous nerves about seeing past parishioners, he pulls on coat and scarf, grabs his newly reacquired wallet, and marches towards the supermarket, though just as it had the night before the swinging of his arms tugs at the worst of his injuries and he has to slow his pace.

The fluorescent lights and vast aisles are intimidating; it's a lot after being stuck in the house with staff for six months and then pretty much only Alec for a week. The scarf makes him too warm, but he doesn't want to take it off, instead tugging it higher around his neck just in case the bruising's showing. The walls feel like they're closing in; every person he passes seems to stare at him. He nods mechanically at a few of them he recognises.

He doesn't go near the wine aisle, instead steering towards the bakery, picking up fresh bread that crunches satisfyingly under his nervous grip.

He wonders briefly if this is what Beth felt like, under observation like a rat in a lab, but then shakes himself out of it. This is nothing like Danny, nothing like a parent losing a child to murder, though he knows he looks pale and unwell after six months of absence.

Mrs Gladwell's voice makes him jump. "Oh, vicar! I didn't know you were back."

Paul smiles awkwardly, fumbling with the shopping basket as he turns to face the older woman. "Yeah just for a bit."

"Isn't your house rented? Reverend Caroline's lovely. "

"It is, I'm staying with, um, Alec Hardy." He suddenly wonders if it was supposed to be a secret. Too late.

"Oh." She seems surprised at that, a little taken aback, which is more than understandable. "Well, look after yourself."

"Thank you. You too."

He's relieved to leave the store, bread and chocolate and a few other bits in a bag for life in his hand; he'd not had the presence of mind to pick up a reusable one in his sudden impulsive departure, even if he'd known where Hardy keeps such inanities.

Back home, he eats the bread with butter and cheese and tomatoes, closing his eyes to relish the crunch and the salty sweet tang of it on his tongue.

*-*-*-*-*

"I hadn't realised you'd moved him in." Miller lounges against his office door, Monday morning cup of coffee wrapped in her hands.

"I've not ’moved him in'! He's just - staying for a while."

"You and your bloody strays," she says, half-fondly. She means Claire, but that was different. He doesn't try and examine the twist in his gut at that thought.

"He's not a _stray_ , Miller! He's a friend."

"Is he? I didn't think you got along." Her eyes are frank but warm.

He feels suddenly defensive. "Just - go back to work."

"Yes, sir."

*-*-*-*-*

When Hardy gets home, Paul has cooked dinner, smiling at him over a handful of pots and pans, the table neatly laid. It's the first time he's been able to stand long enough to make anything other than a sandwich.

"You made dinner," Hardy says inanely, putting down a stack of files and unsteadily pulling out a chair to settle at the table.

Paul shrugs, half distracted by stirring this and that, though his cheeks are a little pink and the corners of his mouth tug down as though he's repressing a smile. "Thought it might be nice, coming home to a meal you didn't have to cook."

"Yeah. It is." The words only half form, drenched in his accent, but Paul seems to understand him.

As Paul moves around the room, apron loosely tied around his waist, Alec finds himself reluctant to return to the case files he's brought home. Crime scene photos and witness statements seem suddenly far less interesting than the man in his kitchen, and instead he idly leans his chin on a hand, resting his heavy gaze on Paul.

The ex-vicar looks good, clad in a soft green jumper that Hardy half-recognises; he's in loose slacks rather than abrasive skinny jeans, but he looks more himself than he has done since they drove down the long, sprawling driveway more than a week ago, leaving Jerry Coates behind them. There's colour in his cheeks - more when he notices Alec staring, and asks "What? Do I have something..." in a half amused tone - and his hair is neatly brushed, though he's not bothered with product, instead swept aside in a loose wave.

"You look good," Hardy says simply, then corrects himself hastily, "Better. You look better."

Paul ducks his head a little, a pleased smile finally settling on his lips. "I feel better."

There's silence for a minute, broken only by the bubble of whatever's on the stove, and then by the clatter as Paul dishes up, sliding plates carefully onto the table. Hardy raises a brow. "This looks good."

"You haven't tasted it yet."

It tastes even better than it looks, and they eat in silence.

Alec stands first, picking up both plates and stacking them in the dishwasher. Despite the fancy meal, the kitchen's tidy, no evidence of spices and sauces beside the odd splash. It's nice, but it also means he has nothing to do with his hands as he starts to speak, resigning himself to lounging against the counter, arms folded as he ducks his chin, staring fiercely at the table.

"What you said about me and Miller."

Paul shakes his head. "I-"

"No, listen." Hardy's determined to say his piece, if not for him then for Miller, the subject of too much small town gossip as it is. "She's great. But after everything with the trial... it wasn't a good idea."

"She said that? Or you did?"

"We both did." Paul thinks he detects some lingering regret, but it isn't his place to pry. "We thought it would always be... tarnished."

"I'm sorry."

"Aye, well, it is what it is. Pretty sure she's sworn off men for good, anyway."

"Really?"

Hardy shakes his head, suddenly reticent. "Not my place."

"Of course. Sorry."

"Don't be."

Paul seems to accept that, and they settle in the living room with books - Paul's had a delivery from Amazon, some of the volumes he needs to update his accountancy qualifications - and case files. Hardy doesn't question the change in reading material, from books picked from his own shelves to dreary tomes of credit laws and VAT guidelines. Paul nibbles at a half-finished bag of chocolate buttons, and Hardy even deigns to have a couple when Paul shakes them out onto his hand.

When they retire to bed, he seems stiff again, but waves away Hardy's concern. "Just stood up too long earlier, aching a bit, don't worry."

Lying in his daughter's empty bedroom that night Hardy thinks, tentatively, that they might have turned a corner. The worst of Paul's injuries starting to heal, the drinking ceased and withdrawal symptoms all but gone; the tentative creeping around the house and the hesitation when speaking starting to fade. They haven't discussed long term plans, but the man seemingly has no urgency to move on.

Down the corridor, Paul sits at the end of Alec's bed, empty gaze fixed on the wall. Back aching, he fingers the faded bruising on his wrist and thinks about his father's words.


	7. Chapter 7

It's a few days before Paul notices it, though he's spent most of that time wrapped, oblivious, in his own aching world, back still bruised down to the bone though his neck has all but healed. 

The weather's taken a turn, wintery rain pounding against the windows, and he finds himself reluctant to get out of the warm bed, curled under the heavy blanket. Alec, on the other hand, is at the kitchen table earlier than normal most days, unhappily picking apart a slice of toast or sipping from a cup of tea that wafts scents of lemon and ginger through the room, flicking idly through case files but not really settling on anything in particular.

After a while, Paul notes the bags growing under Alec's eyes. From experience he knows that getting up an hour earlier wouldn't cause the dark bruising, it's a bigger issue than that, maybe hours lost each night over days or weeks. Perhaps even since the day Paul arrived.

It's when Hardy's yawning over dinner that he finally speaks up. "Not sleeping?"

"Hmm?" The detective blinks lazily at him, eyes half lidded. "Oh - no, I'm fine."

Paul rests his fork on the side of his plate to look at him. "You can have your bed back, you know. I can take Daisy's, or the sofa." He doesn't mention that it's been nearly a month, that he should be thinking about leaving. He doesn't want to think about it. He's at Alec's mercy, and mercy has limits.

Hardy makes a disparaging noise. "It's not that."

"Then what?"

Alec scowls at him, and Paul holds up his hands. "Sorry - prying again. Can't help it."

They leave it there, though Hardy drifts off to sleep during their evening TV viewing, a few sheets of files slipping from his hand onto the floor as the nine o'clock news switches to local coverage. When the folder follows with a thud he jerks awake, half gasping and eyes flickering round the room, and Paul sits very, very still.

Eventually Hardy lets out a great sigh, sinking back into the sofa, and it's only then that he notices Paul. His cheeks immediately flush pink and he looks away.

"I have nightmares too, you know," Paul says conversationally.

Hardy scowls, lurching off the sofa and crouching to gather the files with a shaking hand. He slaps them on the table, snaps out "I'm to bed," and stalks down the corridor.

Once the sounds of water in the pipes cease, Paul gives Alex a few more minutes before closing down the house in near silence, switching off lights and the TV before creeping down the corridor, and waits outside Alec's door. He raises a fist to knock, then drops it with a sigh. "Goodnight, Alec."

He doesn't get a response, but he didn't expect one.

*-*-*-*-*

The next morning Hardy looks no more rested, but there's something that looks like an apology in his eyes as he glances up at Paul over his mug of tea. "I hate this sort of case," he rumbles.

Paul tilts his head, attentive, not wanting to speak and disrupt Hardy's sudden candour.

"Just drugs, really, but there's a little girl and we've had to get Social involved."

"Oh." Paul swallows. "Bad?"

"Mm."

"I'm sorry."

"'s alright. Should be sorted soon."

"Good."

They sit in silence, Alec idly playing with the string of his teabag. He's so _obvious_ when he's working up to say something, Paul thinks. You can almost see him physically gathering the strength to speak, catching it like shadows in the creases in his shoulders, drawing it into his chest.

"It's cases with kids," he says eventually. "I... I'm not... I _hate_ it." He pauses for a long time, mouth opening a little as though to speak, then closing as he doubts himself. Paul stays silent. Eventually he seems to make up his mind. "When I have a case, when I'm really stuck, I have a... mental line up of suspects. So I can look at them, pick them apart. It's the last thing I think about at night, and sometimes I... dream about them. It's worse when there's kids involved."

"And that's what the nightmares are about? Your case?"

Damn him for asking so directly. It seems wrong to lie, when Paul's face is so concerned and open. Hardy folds his arms, ducking his head mulishly, but bites out, "Not exactly." He won't give him everything, won't tell him about the dreams about his parents, it'll just bring up bad memories. But he has more than one trauma haunting his sleeping hours, and at least he can share the burden of one of them, the one that's haunted him most this week with this awful case, with the little girl whose sad dull eyes remind him of the first time he saw Paul in his childhood home. A little girl at risk, in danger, who he doesn't know if he can help.

Paul doesn't rush him, doesn't press for more, but he can see it coming, see it in the heaving of his chest, the whites of his eyes.

Alec takes a deep breath, tucking in his chin before finally speaking. "Sometimes I dream of Pippa. And the river."

"Sandbrook?" He knows about it, it was all over the papers in half the country when Danny died, and after the trial. A body recovered from the river, another girl missing, lost evidence and police cock ups. Somehow solved, Hardy and Ellie's work, three people convicted. By all accounts, the case that nearly killed him.

"Yeah. I'm - I'm swimming towards the body." He doesn't mention that it's too deep, that his chest is agony, that he knows it's futile with every stroke of his weakening arms. "I can see people on the bank. Children, mostly. Pippa, Lisa, Danny. Daisy. Ellie's up there sometimes." He pauses, gaze flicking up to Paul's face, where he sits frozen, before jittering away again. "You, now. And there's always one missing, a gap, and when I get to the body... it's them. Dead in the water. Rotten. I have to get them out. All I can feel is their weight in my arms, dragging me down, even once I'm on solid ground." He looks up at the ceiling, blinking hard. "And then I wake up."

Paul waits, not wanting to interrupt if there's more, but it seems like that's all he's going to get. It's enough, it's far too much. "Alec, I'm so sorry..."

Hardy abruptly shoves away from the table to dump the rest of his tea down the sink.

"Might be late. Want to clear it before the weekend."

"Sure. I won't wait up." Paul's voice is faint, a little lost. He feels the ghost of a hand along his shoulders as Hardy leaves.

*-*-*-*-*

Paul doesn't see much of Hardy for the rest of the week until he tumbles, exhausted, through the door at half past eight on Friday evening.

"Got the little scrotes!" He announces triumphantly, before dropping his bag on the floor with a thud and slumping against the wall. "Fuck I'm knackered."

Paul can't help but laugh at him as he droops tragically. "Well done. Want some toast?"

"Can't. Too tired to chew." He lets out a groan and rolls his head over to gaze at Paul pathetically, before asking plaintively, "Soup?"

Paul knows he's being played by the puppy eyes, but he's not going to argue when the detective looks so exhausted - he might be exaggerating a little but he really does look done in - and for the first time he's realising that Alec Hardy does actually have a playful side. "If I'd known you were celebrating I'd have made some - you'll have to settle for Heinz, sorry."

Hardy lurches along the wall towards the kitchen, a marionette missing a string. "That'd be great."

As he's stirring, something occurs to him. "Shouldn't you be out celebrating with Ellie?"

"Didn't feel like it."

Paul doesn't question it, but when he turns around a few minutes later Alec's asleep, head resting on his folded arms on the table.

He holds back a laugh, and abandons the soup on the side, well out of the way of Hardy's long arms if he wakes abruptly.

There's something in him that itches to run his fingers through the soft dark hair where Alec's obviously been pushing it back from his forehead, stroke it back into place to lay against the brow that rests smooth in sleep. He wonders, briefly, how that worn face might look if he kissed it.

Paul stands there for a long minute before snatching himself away, hands trembling as they cover his mouth.

He sits unsteadily on the armchair, knees pressed tightly together, taking deep, steadying breaths, deep enough that his back aches with each intake.

Alec Hardy has been so good to him, so kind, and this is how he'll repay him? Lusting after him when he's so tired he can hardly think, when he's just solved a case containing who knows what horrors, when all the man wants is a decent meal and a good night's sleep, not to be leered over by some... pervert.

Alec might be a good man, but Paul knows there's violence in everyone - he knows what that hot sharp anger feels like in his own belly - and he knows Alec's already snapped once, left a bruise on his father's face, though they haven't talked about why. There's only so far even such a good man can be pushed before lashing out again, and this would surely be enough.

This is it, he has to go, he should take the chance now Hardy's finished his case to get out from under his feet. He's got savings, they'll last for a while. He'll make do. He's a grown man now, sober, it won't be like before. Better to leave before he gets thrown out, before Alec sees who he is, while there's still something positive left between them.

For only the second time since returning home to Broadchurch, he grabs his coat and keys and sets out for an insomnia-driven walk.

*-*-*-*-*

He wakes late, though he didn't sleep much even after he'd staggered in soaking wet and shivering long after midnight, back aching from over-exertion after trekking over half of Broadchurch in the pouring rain to avoid passing the church.

He can hear Hardy having a one-sided conversation in the kitchen; Paul hears "darling" once, and a soft laugh. Perhaps that's another reason why Ellie and Alec hadn't made a go of it, he's got someone back in Mercia, or Glasgow maybe.

Paul tries not to listen, although it's hard to tune out with the door wide open, and Alec isn't trying to be quiet.

"I've still got my friend staying... No, I'd love to see you -"

Something lurches in Paul's gut, and he leans around the doorframe. "I can find somewhere else to stay?"

Hardy waves him away with a dismissive hand, eyes set somewhere in the half distance as he speaks into the phone. "Yeah. Yeah, that's a good idea. I'll come get you, then? About two? We'll go on the way past. Ok. Ok, bye darling, see you soon." He hangs up; runs a hand through tousled bedhead, and offers Paul a grin, wide and toothy and relaxed. He's in clothes that very much say Off Duty, well fitted jeans and a jumper that wouldn't go amiss in Paul's own wardrobe. He thinks it's the first time he's seen Alec in anything but a suit - or a towel.

"It's Daisy's reading week, since the case hasn't dragged on she's coming to stay." He looks delighted, more animated than Paul's seen him in days. "I'll get her from Bristol later."

"That's great," Paul offers weakly. Some errant bellboy has misplaced some of the bags under Hardy's eyes, leaving them under Paul's instead, and he feels half-present. He can't bring himself to say that he has to leave, and he suddenly wishes he had the confidence a drink would give him instead of the cowardice of sobriety.

It takes him until nearly lunch to blurt out, "I should go."

Alec, uncharacteristically lounging on the sofa watching something that might be Top Gear, looks over at him, propping himself up on one elbow. "What?"

"I'll stay at the Traders. Or with Maggie, if her and Jocelyn have the space."

Alec looks suddenly taken aback, twisting around until he can sit and rest his folded arms on his knees. "What - where's this come from?"

"You, um, you're obviously under a lot of stress at work and now I'm... here, in your space and I shouldn't be troubling you so much." It's not exactly the truth, but there's no way he can say _I think I want to hold you close and taste your smile_. "It's fine." He's couch surfed often enough in the past.

"You're not... troubling me. D'you think I'd put up with you for a month without saying a word if it was a bother?"

You would, Paul thinks. You're nicer than anyone realises, except maybe Ellie. Still, he can't find it in himself to speak a defense to Hardy's words.

Alec looks down at his hands, clasping them together. "It's been... Nice. Having someone here."

You don't know what I've been thinking about you, Paul thinks desperately. What you'd do if you knew... "I can't stay forever."

"You could stay for a bit longer." There's a faint question there, and Alec adds quietly, "Please?"

Open mouthed, Paul eventually nods, but adds firmly, "I'll take the sofa tonight. You and Daisy can stay in the right rooms."

"Yeah, alright." Hardy gives in too easily, but perhaps he's already relieved at one victory.

Paul waits until the TV's back on, some supercar reaching inappropriate speeds on the track, before he speaks again. "Alec?"

"Mm?"

"Thanks."

*-*-*-*-*

After the exhausted jubilation of solving a case and getting a young girl set up with a distant but loving relative, it had been a delight to hear Daisy's voice, particularly when she offered to visit last minute. More than he'd been expecting, even if he could only have her for a couple of days.

Paul's intention to leave had come as an unpleasant shock, a trail of ice water down his spine. He'd known it couldn't last forever, this weird liminal world with copper and injured ex-vicar and quiet, comfortable company, but somehow it still surprised him.

How to say _knowing you're safe in my house is the only thing that helped me cope through this case and the flashbacks and the nightmares,_ without sounding... Needy. Weird. Creepy. And admitting that Jerry Coates had scared the shit out of him with what he'd been capable of doing to Paul wouldn't be fair either - Paul has enough to deal with.

Eventually he settles on "It's been... nice." Eloquent. Poetic. Maybe he should have gone with the creepy line.

At least it seems to do the job, clearing the scrunched brow a little, even if he's cringing inside.

"You could stay for a bit longer. Please?" God he's tragic. But it works, somehow, and he gets a brief reprieve. He tries not to let the relief show on his face.

When he leaves for Bristol train station later, he points a half threatening finger at Paul. "If you're gone when I get back I'll assume you've been kidnapped and track you down."

He shuts the door, Paul's laughing face a Cheshire cat smile in the gap.

*-*-*-*-*

When he gets home, Paul's obediently sat on the sofa and looks up with a smile that holds only a hint of nervousness.

Alec grins at him, and he stands, discreetly wiping sweaty palms on his trousers as Daisy follows through the door. "Paul, this is Daisy, my daughter. Daisy, Paul."

"Hi." She smiles at him with an awkward wave, a pretty young woman with long hair and freckles that mirror Hardy's own.

"Hi, Daisy." He holds out a hand to shake which she takes in a slim hand, holding just long enough to be polite. Already she feels more socially capable than Alec. He looks at Alec, hovering awkwardly in the background. "I'll leave you two alone for a bit, I'll be back later."

"Oh I don't mind," Daisy offers, but Paul's already shaking his head.

"I've got some things to do, don't worry. I'll have dinner out, let you catch up."

He raises a hand in farewell and retreats, leaving two bemused Hardys in his wake.

Somehow his hurried walk and ducked head prevents anyone from recognising him, or at least from stopping him. The library's quiet and peaceful, an air of the church about it without having to go by St Bude's itself, and one of the private meeting rooms is perfect for his sponsor to drop by and have a long, reassuring talk.

When he gets back home many hours later, he can hear the over-enthusiastic screams of a cheesy horror film and Hardy's groan alongside Daisy's laughter.

The TV pauses as he shuts the door, and Alec appears in the doorway. There's a piece of popcorn stuck to his jumper, but it tumbles to the ground as he leans against the door frame. "Alright? Get your stuff done?" Hardy's careful not to pry, though he's probably figured out part of his objectives.

"Yeah." He changes the subject. "Sounds like you're having fun."

"It's awful, I just wanted to put on something educational-"

"Dad!" Daisy's outraged squawk announces her appearance at the door, shoving her father as he grins. "It was your idea!"

"That's a lie," he informs Paul solemnly, half pushing Daisy behind him much to her amusement.

She slings an arm around his waist, looking up at him with a smile. "Show him, Dad."

"Show me what?" Paul's faintly concerned, and if they try and make him watch an awful horror film he'll have to make a break for it.

Alec looks a little nervous suddenly, ducking his chin and looking up through his hair, though he disguises it by glancing at Daisy. "Go on," she whispers, giving him a little push.

"Come on," Hardy says eventually, jerking his chin towards the stairs. Paul follows obediently, though Daisy ducks back into the living room.

The second door on the left, which has remained locked the whole time Paul's been here, opens under Hardy's hand, and he steps back, cheeks flushed as he gestures Paul forward.

Paul looks at him curiously but obliges, feeling at the wall for a light switch.

When light floods the room, Paul stares, then frowns, looking at Alec. "I don't understand."

A chest of drawers. A desk and chair, battered and pushed to the side but serviceable enough. A bed, navy sheets and thick pillows; a soft stuffed toy has pride of place on top of them. A sleek black piano keyboard, like the desk slightly worn, sits off to one side.

Alec is bright red from cheeks to ears, a smile flickering and fading nervously. "It's for you. A place to stay. If you want."

Paul looks back at the room. "I... when did..."

"Went past Ikea on the way back from getting Daiz. She helped me put it together. And carried her keyboard all the way from university on the train." He's a bit more coherent when speaking about Daisy, though still gruff and thickly Scottish. "I told her you played."

"Alec, this is..."

"Ach, 's only a bit of furniture."

It's not, it's really, really not. "I..."

"Anyway," Hardy interrupts, shrugging, "Didn't need the office, thought it might be better. Y'don't have to, y'can stay with Maggie if y'want." Shoulders bowed he hurries down the corridor and down the stairs.

Paul stands there for a second, mouth unattractively agape, clutching weakly at the door frame, eyes taking in Hardy's gift to him, before flinging himself away.

"Alec!"

The detective pauses and half turns back, still pink cheeked in the dimly lit hall.

"Thank you." His voice trembles.

Alec ducks his head and rejoins his daughter.

Unable to face either Hardy for fear of bursting into heaving, overwhelming sobs, Paul curls up on the bed around the soft toy, clutching the ridiculous thing close. Instead of wracking sobs, the tears trickle slowly from beneath closed eyes, silver tracks on the pillows.

Much later, when his tears have left him both dehydrated and desperate to pee, he heads to the bathroom, feet light on the carpet. He can hear Daisy's voice over the sound of another horror B-movie, and despite his reluctance to eavesdrop for the second time that day can't help but pause, head tilted to catch her words. "I like him. And he's cute." Paul pulls a face. He doesn't fancy having to deal with a teenage crush, or Hardy's inevitable protective parenting.   
"He's twice your age!"

"Well yeah, he's cute for an old guy." Paul hears outraged syllables from Alec, but nothing really forms before Daisy follows up, "You guys don't have to hide it just because I'm here, you know."

"What?"

"I mean, you two are... right? "Friends", no one calls it that any more. I don't mind, Dad."

"No, Daisy, no!" And there's a note of panic in Hardy's voice now. "He's had a really rough time of it, it's nothing like that, don't suggest that to him."

"Shit, sorry-"

"Oi! Language."

"Probably learned it from you."

They subside. Paul can barely hear Daisy's next words. "He seems sad."

"I know. He's getting better."

When he leaves the bathroom, the only sound is the TV.

*-*-*-*-*

When he wakes, stretching luxuriously in his _own bed_ , it's to the sound of church bells calling for Sunday service. For the first time since he left Broadchurch their cascading peals don't make him feel guilty for leaving, don't make him feel like a failure, don't make him want to drown his sorrows.

Alec's in the kitchen with the newspaper, Daisy nowhere to be seen, her bedroom door still shut.

"Good morning."

"How was the mattress?" Alec looks faintly anxious.

"Really comfortable. Slept like a log." And that doesn't happen often, not now the exhaustion of injury and fear has faded; he's falling back into old patterns.

"Good."

"You, um. You didn't have to do that. I would have been fine with the sofa." It's too much. He could repay the money, eventually, but the sentiment... There isn't enough gratitude in the world for what Hardy's done for him, and now this too.

"Aye, well." Hardy's suddenly engrossed in the paper.

"Well. Thank you. It was very generous."

He can see the tips of Alec's ears reddening as the man stares determinedly at his newspaper, and decides a subject change is in order. "Tea?"

"Please."

*-*-*-*-*

It's not a grand piano; there are no pedals under his feet to hold the notes where they need holding, and it doesn't have the same feel under his hands nor the same rich noise. Still, it answers to his fingers well enough, dancing a pretty tune, and the notes come from memory, not the carefully curated sheet music his father had set in front of him.

Hardy feels as though he's back in Jerry Coates' house in his rented tux, hiding in a corridor as Paul plays a song in an aching minor key, spilling his heart into the empty room.

Once again he steps through the doorway, to see Paul seated at the keyboard, though he's in the borrowed soft cream jumper, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, rather than a tux. This time he's treated to a shy smile, and the music melds effortlessly into something more cheerful, a change of key that makes Alec want to smile back, so he does.

"You play beautifully," he offers, once again.

Paul ducks his head, though he's still smiling as he returns to the keyboard, and plays his heart out for his audience of one.


	8. Chapter 8

Their routine settles again after that, as the year races towards Christmas. The drugs case paperwork is wrapped up, and Hardy's nightmares become irregular again, though there's still the odd morning when Paul wanders into the kitchen to find the man stony faced and haggard; nearly as many mornings as Paul has to drag himself from bed with eyes heavy from lack of sleep.

Feeling the pressure of spending his savings and living rent free in Hardy's converted office, despite Hardy's reassurances, Paul sticks a note up in the post office noticeboard, and begrudgingly in the Echo, advertising his accountancy services. He's not used the skills in years - aside from the odd volunteering with people who needed it - but a bit of brushing up has reminded him that he's not that rusty, really, and it's just a couple of exams sat in Weymouth before he's back on the register, qualified and ready to go. It's not much, not when people aren't exactly lining up for his services, but it's another step towards independence that doesn't involve going back to the church or his father.

He has calls, one or two, and takes to spending a couple of afternoons a week in the library, meeting people and going through badly kept tax records. It's quiet, and focussed, and working on the computers running through numbers is almost meditative. Occasionally he'll lend a hand to people sat behind keyboards with confused expressions, and it's nice to feel useful again.

Paul cooks most evenings, though they both take their turn, heart healthy meals that have him lighter than he's been in years, though he'll always carry more solidity than Hardy's slim frame. He compares them, sometimes, usually after catching a glimpse of Alec's towel-wrapped waist after a morning shower. Once or twice imagines running his fingers over still-damp ribs, through soaked hair, along freshly shaved jawline.

He hates himself for having these thoughts about the man who saved him, the heroic police officer who stepped in to rescue him; knows Alec would be horrified if he found out, though sometimes he doubts himself - _would he, though? He doesn't seem homophobic, he heard you say boyfriend and didn't flinch; but then not being homophobic is different to having someone in his house thinking those awful things about him._ It's just wrong, he's wrong, he's sick, and as much as he knows those are his father's words, it doesn't stop them hurting and holding a ring of truth.

He knows he should leave. He has nowhere else to go but this can't be home, this can't be his only safe haven in the world, he can't let himself depend like that when it might be snatched away without warning when Alec finally comes to his senses. He can't bear to ask again, not after he was so astutely rebuffed, but he knows it's coming. _Long term_ goes into the heap of things he shouldn't think about, along with the slim curve of Alec's back or how he might look with his hair spread out over a pillow in sleep.

Once or twice he catches Alec watching him with careful dark eyes; he's not sure if it's for signs of relapse - he hasn't touched a bottle in weeks, not since that first slip up, and the withdrawal symptoms have faded - or for something else, but surely if there had been any slight possibility of a relationship he would have made a move, would have said _something_. He lets himself fantasise, sometimes, about Alec sweeping him off his feet, kissing him breathless, whispering love and devotion in his ears, and then condemns himself for every awful word.

But he's straight, or straight enough, he was with Becca for a year, he's being ridiculous. He just needs to find someone. Maybe next year, once he's a bit more settled, he can get one of those dating apps. Surely someone would be happy to date an ex-vicar turned accountant who at thirty four is housemates with a cop.

When Alec brushes against him in the kitchen occasionally, or absent-mindedly pats his arm when he gets home from work, Paul ignores it, but is careful to never do it himself, never reach out or touch when he shouldn't, because Alec's just being kind and if Paul did anything like that it would be because of his misguided, irrational feelings and that would be beyond inappropriate. His rescue was fantasy enough; he can't indulge himself with the ridiculous thought that Alec might ever be interested in a traumatised, repressed alcoholic.

*-*-*-*-*

Hardy had raised, once or twice, the possibility of Paul giving a statement about the attack; once after giving Miller the bottles of wine lingering in the kitchen cupboard, once dropping it into conversation when he'd spent a day taking pointless statements about petty crimes and felt it far less worthwhile than recording a violent assault. He'd dropped it when it had only caused the man distress, pale skin and hammering pulse, though it still led to screaming nightmares that night on top of the normal insomnia.

He's very aware that his own symptoms are unusual for PTSD, the fear of the water the main one amongst a handful of others, so he's not exactly sure what to look out for; he watches carefully for more signs of trauma, any flinches when he moves too fast, or when he forgets himself and brushes Paul's shoulder in gratitude for a meal or a kind word after a long day, but there's not much. He sometimes feels he's being watched back in return, but never quite manages to catch him in the act.

Paul's an excellent housemate, quiet and tidy, a good cook, and once his wounds are healed enough to get rid of the bandages he asks nothing of Hardy. Alec sometimes wishes the man would ask for more, make his needs known, but he consoles himself with the thought that at least he hears the sound of the piano, the keyboard, more days than not. He doesn't interrupt, wanting the man to have his own space, but occasionally Paul gives him a small half-embarrassed smile when he emerges afterwards.

He thinks, sometimes, about pressing a kiss to a softly blush-pink cheek, running a hand through carefully styled hair, but then he remembers Jerry Coates' words, thrown in anger at Paul as he departed. It wouldn't be fair, to just assume something said out of cruelty was true. The man's a vicar; Alec might not be an expert but he's pretty sure being gay - or bisexual, for that matter - isn't exactly in the scriptures. It's wishful thinking. Even if he was... _available_ , he wouldn't be interested in a washed up copper ten years his senior with a heart condition and ptsd.

It wouldn't be fair for him to say anything. Paul's younger, he's vulnerable, for all that he puts up a strong front; he's just come out of six months of abuse and an incredibly vicious assault on top of that. He might - and the thought of it makes Alec feel a little sick - he might feel _obligated_. To reciprocate. To... go along with anything Alec suggests, out of some misguided sense of debt.

It's a ridiculous fantasy to think Paul might want him, and a disservice to the man, and he tries desperately to put it from his mind.

He's glad Paul's been able to pick up a handful of accounting jobs and regain a bit of independence, plus it's getting him back out into the community and speaking to people. It had been a brief concern, early on, the lack of willingness to engage with the outside world, but eventually he'd just put it down to the pain of his injuries, and the self-consciousness over the obvious marks of strangulation.

One evening, just as he's called a greeting and started taking off his coat, he hears Paul's phone ringing in the kitchen.

"Hello?"

Hardy doesn't hear any more words, but there's a thin whine and then silence. His coat drops from suddenly numb hands, heart pounding as he bursts through the doorway to see Paul, gaze fixed straight ahead, gnawing at his lower lip with his phone to his ear, and it doesn't take a second before he's realised what's happened.

He pries the phone from cold, clammy fingers, hanging up on the tinny voice still echoing through the speakers, jabbing at the power button so he can't call back.

Paul's frozen, white faced, chest heaving, and Alec crouches down in front of him, resting a hand gently on his knee.

"Paul? It's ok, you're safe. We're at home, you're at my house, it's just you and me here." Paul's panicked gaze flickers down to him, and Alec offers a smile he hopes is calming.

"It was - it was my - my _father_ \- Alec, he called, he -" Paul can barely get the words out.

"I know. It's alright, I'll sort that out later. Right now I need you to breathe with me." His voice is steady, though his heart is anything but. "Can you breathe with me, Paul?"

"I can't - I can't -" Paul's breath catches, a hand clutched to his chest.

"Ok, ok, you're alright. Shhh." Alec's thumb rubs circles on the inside of Paul's knee, slowing down as he talks, voice lowering into something heavy and smooth and rhythmic. "Breathe in - good lad - and breathe out. There you go. In, and out. You're doing really well."

It's a long few minutes before Paul's breath is steady and colour has returned to his face.

"I'm sorry," he coughs out, "I don't know what..."

"You've not had a panic attack before?"

"Is that... oh. No. I thought I was - dying."

Alec gives him a sympathetic smile. "They feel like that. I can give you some of my meds if you want?"

"I don't think you're supposed to do that," Paul says before registering what Hardy's admitted to. "You... Get this? Panic attacks?" He covers his mouth as he yawns, but his eyes are intensely green as he stares down at Hardy's still-kneeling form.

Hardy shrugs. "Sometimes."

"I'm sorry."

"Happens. You want a glass of water? Some toast?" Hardy stands, knees protesting, and waits patiently for Paul to speak.

"Water-" Paul's words are broken by another yawn. "Sorry. Water please."

Hardy brings him a plastic tumbler. "Better than glass if you drop it," he explains, and the spilled drops as Paul brings it to his lips suggest it's a wise move.

There's a long silence as Hardy pulls up a chair to sit, knee butting up against Paul's leg, Paul mechanically sipping at the water until the glass is emptied. When he stares down at the empty tumbler in bemusement, Hardy takes it from him, and his hands flop lifelessly onto his thighs, one coming up briefly to cover another jaw-cracking yawn.

Eventually he gathers himself enough to speak. "He, ah. He wanted to know when I was coming back." A wide hand rests on his knee, a reassuring solidity, and Hardy leans forward, intense energy controlled and focussed and still as Paul speaks. "If I wanted to _stay for Christmas_."

That's all he can manage. His father had said more than that, awful things, but...

Alec's face is soft and open, but he speaks firmly, catching and holding Paul's gaze where he's looking up through his lashes. "You're not going back. Well, I won't stop you, but it's not a good idea." He takes a quick breath. "And you're welcome here for Christmas, course y'are. Saves me being on my own."

Paul looks up, startled, but Alec hurries on. "Y'don't have to decide now, I just wanted you to know. You're welcome here."

"Alec, I..."

Their faces are so close, barely a foot apart as they both lean into this strange confessional circle formed by legs and bowed shoulders and Alec's hand on Paul's leg.

Alec licks his lips, and Paul's eyes flicker to them, unbidden, then guiltily bounce back up to his gaze again. "You've been so good to me."

Hardy ducks his head, and when he looks up it's with a soft smile. "Aye, well, it's not difficult."

It would be nothing - a brief relaxation of muscles, a simple surrender, for Paul to lean forward and close the gap between them, to press his lips to Alec's, to feel the softness of them against his own mouth. The work of an instant.

The destruction of everything he has left.

Horrified, disgusted with himself, Paul forces himself away, unable to bear Alec's open, guileless expression, leaping to his feet so the hand on his knee drops back to rest on Hardy's lap, curled harmlessly against his leg.

Alec's brow is furrowed now, concerned once again, but he's so very careful not to move too quickly, not to jerk up or reach out a careless hand. "Want to go sit somewhere more comfortable?"

"No - no, I'll just - head to bed." He can barely stop himself from yawning, and it's both exhaustion and shame that chase him up the stairs.

Sleep is a very long time coming.

*-*-*-*-*

The next morning, Paul's at the kitchen table when Hardy wanders in, hair still damp from his shower, and he catches himself at the other man's stiff backed posture and the heavy bags under his eyes. "You alright?"

Paul takes a deep breath, staring at his hands laid flat on the table as though he's willing them not to curl into fists. "If I made a statement - what would happen?"

Alec doesn't move for a long minute, face purposefully blank, but then perches on the table, close enough to Paul that he could reach out and touch him without stretching, long legs hanging off the edge. He towers above Paul, but it's somehow comforting rather than intimidating. Protective.

His voice is steady and reassuring. Paul's started to think of it as his 'dealing with victims' voice, and he recognises it as one he's used himself, at times.

"You'd go and speak to someone at the station, tell them what happened. I could go in with you, or you can go on your own, but I won't be able to be a detective for that, just a friend." Paul nods, hands flexing on the table. "They'll write it all down, you'll check it and sign it. After that they'll decide if he should be arrested, and the approximate offence he's committed. It's probably..." Hardy swallows. "Probably GBH. Grievous bodily harm. There's a couple of types depending on exactly what he did but it won't matter yet." He swallows again. "Maybe attempted murder." Paul blinks but doesn't say anything. "They'll probably arrest him and charge him. He'll get a lawyer - probably a good one - then it goes to court."

"Will I have to testify?" Paul speaks slowly, eyes fixed on his hands.

"Maybe. Not if he pleads guilty." Paul flinches at that, an unpleasant memory, and Alec lifts a hand to touch his arm before aborting the gesture.

There's a determination in Paul's eyes as he looks up at Alec, jaw clenched. "I've already helped one bastard get away with something he shouldn't have, I'm not doing it again."

At that Alec can't help but reach out to Paul's shoulder, giving him the smallest of squeezes before letting go. "Let me get dressed and we'll go now."

*-*-*-*-*

It's a short drive, but Paul starts off pale and by the time they pull in to Hardy's allocated parking space he's sheet white. After the rumble of the engine settles into silence Hardy gives him a minute, but he doesn't move.

"Sure about this?"

"Mhm." He doesn't sound sure.

"Want me to encourage you or just carry you?"

A small twitch at the corner of Paul's mouth. "You can't carry me, your pacemaker will have a fit."

"Test me," Hardy threatens with a smile, and that brief exchange is enough for Paul to creak back to life, unfastening his seatbelt and climbing out of the car.

Hardy has a brief conversation at reception and they're escorted to one of the interview rooms, Paul still looking like he might keel over at any second. At least they don't have to walk through the bullpen, to be stared at by the officers there as they start the day's work.

"Want me to come in with you?" Alec offers softly, as they walk.

Paul shakes his head. "Bad enough you were there."

"I'll be right outside. You can stop the interview any time you like, just let them know."

Hardy loiters outside the room, though visitors would normally be left in a waiting room. After a minute one of the officers leaves the room and he frowns at him. "What're you doing?"

The man looks at him with a little confusion. "Uh - he wants a cup of tea, sir. Something herbal. I'll only be a minute."

Hardy shakes his head. "I'll make it, the stuff here's shit. Wait outside."

"Yes, sir."

He makes his way to his office, digging in his desk drawer for his private stash of herbal tea - the good stuff, not the token offering the station buys every couple of months - before heading to the kitchen. Freshly boiled kettle, pre-warmed mug with thick sides that should hold the heat for a whole interview. He winds the string round the handle and grabs a saucer too.

The officer's still outside the interview room, on his phone, and Hardy thrusts mug and saucer at him. He takes the mug but looks bemused at the saucer, clearly not designed to be used with the hefty mug.

Impatiently, Hardy explains, "So he can take the bag out when he's done." He likes to play with the string while it brews, he thinks but doesn't say.

"Yes, sir."

*-*-*-*-*

In the interview room, Paul's hands are icy from nerves, and he shoves them in his pockets, though he's too nervous to keep them there for long and he ends up with them in his lap, tapping his fingertips against his thighs. As soon as he realises he's doing it he wrings them together guiltily to stop the movement, but the young officer in the room with him doesn't seem annoyed, just giving him a polite smile between the small talk.

It's very different to last time he was in an interview at the station, under Alec Hardy's stern gaze, but the nerves are almost worse now, and he doesn't have righteous, icy fury to keep him calm and still.

The other officer returns, carrying a mug of something that smells of mint. Paul takes it with a grateful smile and a nod at the saucer, a nice touch that means he won't have to leave the teabag in and let it get over brewed. People always forget that with herbal tea.

He cups his hands around it, tugging at the string to agitate the water.

"Mr Coates. You're here to report a crime, is that right?"

"Um, yes. An attack. On me."

"Ok, we'll start at the beginning, if that's alright. When was this?"

Paul swallows hard and takes a sip of the tea to disguise his nerves. His eyes widen as he recognises the taste of Alec's favourite, a three mint blend rather than peppermint, and he suddenly feels as though there's a warm hand curled gently around his bicep. "About two months ago..."

*-*-*-*-*

When the door finally swings open, Hardy propels himself off the wall where he's been lounging. Paul's eyes are red, as is the tip of his nose, but his jaw is firm.

"Alright?"

Paul nods firmly. "I'm good."

"Ready to go home?"

"Very," he says fervently. 


	9. Chapter 9

When Hardy gets home from work that evening they're still both unsettled, the sound of the wind outside making both of them jump as it rattles rain against the windows. Alec cooks, Paul's hands too shaky to trust with sharp knives, though he's unfocussed and ends up burning the edges of the pasta bake.

They eat in silence, and Paul takes the washing up, scrubbing furiously at the burned dish as Hardy heads into the living room with a cup of chamomile tea, stereotypical for a calming evening drink but at the same time he feels he needs it.

He's sipping at the near-boiling liquid when there's a splintering crash and a curse from the kitchen.

"Paul? You alright?"

"Yeah - just dropped the dish, sorry, it's smashed, I'll clear it up-" But his voice wavers and Alec's already putting down his tea, hurrying through to the kitchen.

In the kitchen Paul's on his knees, surrounded by shards of glass and soap bubbles. He's holding a large piece of the dish, picking up smaller bits and placing them inside.

"I'll get a brush," Hardy offers, though his eyes catch and linger on the sharp bits of glass. "Careful - don't cut yourself."

Paul's still picking up the glass, even when Alec crouches down beside him holding dustpan and brush. "Paul."

"I'm sorry - I didn't mean to break it, I didn't mean to get it everywhere."

"It's ok, it's only a dish. Paul? Stop, please-"

But there's something about the catch in his breathing that makes Hardy's heart race, and there's blood on some of the glass, a thick shard rimmed with red.

"Stop, you're - you're _hurting_ yourself -" He can't bear it, can't bear the blood and the glass and the sound of the crash still echoing in his ears, and he reaches out a hand to catch at Paul's wrist before he can think, slim fingers wrapping around bone where just a few weeks before had burned cruel bruises.

"Get off me!" With an anguished sob, Paul snatches his arm away, a ruby flash of blood spilling down his arm as he puts his hand far, far out of reach, twisting up and away from Alec's gentle movements.

The desperate _no_ doesn't come from Paul; instead it's Hardy's terrified voice as he flinches back from the raised hand before him.

The room fills with the sound of their harsh breathing, Alec thrown back on his haunches as he trembles, eyes fixed on the back of Paul's hand as it hovers, frozen, in midair.

"I'm sorry," Paul whispers, but it doesn't seem to register. "Alec?" He asks, tentative, hand dropping down to his side. Alec's wide, white-rimmed eyes follow it until it's resting on Paul's leg, a red tendril of blood on pale skin, before the dark gaze flickers up to meet Paul's green eyes. Hardy stutters out a few noises, nothing coherent, as he shuffles backwards on the floor, ungainly and fearful, chest heaving.

Paul hadn't meant to shout, hadn't meant to flinch away, he knows Alec isn't a threat, it was just in that split second he'd not been here, in the cosy kitchen, he'd been in the plush living room of his father's mansion and fingers had closed around his wrist and he'd just - _reacted_.

"Alec, I'm so sorry-"

Hardy's eyes close, and when he opens them there's more life behind them, less animal terror. He gathers himself into a coherent pile of human limbs, rather than a broken puppet splayed across the kitchen floor, dragging his legs beneath him to kneel and lean forwards again to try and see the damage to Paul's skin. "It's fine." He seems to be holding himself with sheer force of will. "Your hand - you're bleeding?"

"It's nothing," Paul says, glancing at the cut across his palm, smeared across his life line but already clotting, not much more than a scratch. "Are you alright?"

Alec's still huffing in desperate breaths, trying to calm his racing heart, palms sweaty as he digs in his nails to try and ground himself. "I just - I'll be back in a minute." He launches to his feet and flings himself from the room, barely managing to avoid crashing into the doorway as he stumbles away.

Paul's still sat on the floor, one hand filled with glass and the other curled in his lap.

*-*-*-*-*

"Alec?" The knock on the bathroom door is tentative; Paul doesn't want to startle him.

"I'll be out in a minute."

It sounds like a lie.

There's the rattle of water in the pipes and Paul can hear the sink running.

He feels sick; the look in Hardy's eyes as he raised his hand is burned into his memory and he knows he'll see it in his dreams. How could he have thought Alec was a threat, how could he have reacted like that to the man who practically saved his life? The thought that he might have lashed out, tried to hurt Alec - it's unbearable.

*-*-*-*-*

_He wasn't supposed to see me like that._

Not even just a panic attack; worse, a flashback, not knowing where he was or who he was looking at. It's been a long time since he's had one of those without water taking centre stage, though perhaps the theme of some of his nightmares since seeing Jerry Coates should have given him some idea that it was looming.

He stares at himself in the mirror, fumbles his spare packet of meds down from the shelf and tips one into his mouth, scooping up water in one hand to wash it down with a messy slurp. The second handful of water goes over his face, trying to chill his skin and centre himself back in his body.

The knock on the door makes him jump, and he stutters out something to buy himself more time.

Hardy feels dizzy, sick, and loosens the collar of his shirt, pushing up his sleeves. He lets his head hang over the sink, water dripping off his chin, until even that starts adding to the panic and he has to dry his face with a towel.

*-*-*-*-*

One minute turns into two, then five - just as Paul's about to knock again, the handle turns, the door swinging open to reveal Hardy, shirt loosened an extra button, the edges of his hair damp, his shoulders square. "Sorry," he says mildly, "I can be a bit squeamish sometimes."

_You dealt with my bloodied, beaten back and put bandages on me without flinching,_ Paul thinks. He hadn't realised Hardy was such a rubbish liar. He doesn't call him on it, instead fumbling into a miserable apology. "I am... so sorry I reacted like that. I trust you, I really do, I don't know what happened-"

"Paul." Alec's voice is gentle as he interrupts, and he reaches out to rest a hand on the younger man's upper arm, a barely there presence with no hint of a grip. "It's fine. You've been through a really tough time, of course you're going to panic sometimes, particularly if I do something that reminds you of it."

The words are sensible, said evenly, but Alec's face is still white, and Paul gets the impression that if he moved quickly he would bolt like a startled foal.

"No, don't just - don't just tell me it's ok. I saw your face, don't pretend it was nothing."

Paul lifts a hand, wanting to reach out and reassure him, but Alec's eyes flick to it with a frown. "You're still bleeding."

"It's fine-"

"Sit down. I'll bandage it."

Paul sits obediently on the closed toilet seat, holding out his hand. At least this time Hardy isn't wielding his phone to take photos of the damage.

Alec curls his hand underneath Paul's, lifting it and turning so he can inspect the wound, though he's leaning back - Paul thinks it's disgust before realising he's just not wearing his reading glasses.

"I think it'll be ok." He runs the tap, dampens some paper and starts to brush gently at Paul's palm, wiping away where the blood has smeared.

"I know." Paul rests his uninjured hand on Alec's forearm, thin blue veins rising to the surface of pale skin. He freezes briefly at the press of Paul's fingers against him. "I'm sorry I scared you," Paul says, and this time Alec doesn't deny it, instead taking in a deep breath and looking up to meet his gaze.

"It was my mistake, not yours. It won't happen again," he says firmly. _I'll be better._

The first aid kit's in the cupboard, not needed in weeks but still well stocked. Alec briefly lets go of Paul's hand to find a bandage, but takes it again to smooth the white gauze carefully across the broad palm, pressing down the edges with careful fingers. He's a little disappointed when Paul's uninjured hand remains at his side.

"Thank you."

When he looks up there's something in Paul's gold-flecked green eyes that cuts at him, something heavy and soft and bright that Alec can barely stand to look at.

It drags the words from him without a thought, as he stands above Paul, still holding his hand in both of his. His voice is barely a whisper as he confesses.

"I am... so tired."

Tired of the nightmares, tired of being so strong for Paul, tired of keeping all his secret fears curled up inside him where they can never see the light. Tired of wishing things could be different.

Paul's hands flexes, and Alec drops it as though he's been burned. The younger man stands, and Alec is reminded that the two inch difference in their heights is nothing, really, the tip of his nose level with the sweep of Paul's pale eyelashes; his mouth level with the sharp ridge of cheekbones.

"I know it's not your thing but I think a hug might be good for you." Paul's voice is surprisingly steady.

Alec raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"You never know, you might like it."

_That's what I'm afraid of._

Paul's eyes are so kind, and it seems so selfish to take this from him when the man doesn't know what he's offering, doesn't know how much the faith he has in him is misplaced and corrupted by the feelings that have burned in his chest for weeks now, crammed in with his pacemaker and traitorous, useless heart, spilling out through his ribs.

But though he's afraid, still so afraid, he steps forward as Paul opens his arms, and lets himself be engulfed.

It's worse than he could ever have imagined. He knows how this feels now, this warm surrender in strong arms, the press of a gentle hand at the nape of his neck, the wild flutter of Paul's heart against his own.

Holding the firm body close, Alec buries his face in a curved shoulder and as his heart leaps in his chest he turns his head just enough to bury his nose in the soft strands of blond hair curling behind Paul's ear. A braver man might have stolen a kiss, but Hardy's not that, not today and not with Paul, so he just stands there for the span of three long breaths, letting his lungs empty and fill without conscious thought.

Paul's arms tighten around him, but he doesn't speak.

When Alec lets go, too soon and far too late, Paul gives him a weak smile.

"Alright, that's enough of that," Hardy coughs out gruffly, feeling out of place and awkward. He isn't - he's not the sort of person that people treat like this. Like he's something precious. And the fact that it's Paul, who's been through so much, comforting him, makes it all the worse. "I'm to bed."

It's barely eight, but Paul doesn't question it - after all, he retired at almost the same time yesterday.

Alec drags himself up the stairs, back weary and head bowed. Paul waits at the bottom to check he gets up safely, though it's hardly a long way. When he hears the bedroom door shut, he sinks down onto a step, legs suddenly weak and trembling. He might not know exactly what's going on with Alec, but it's wrong to reach out to him like that, to hug him when he has these feelings growing in his chest for him, when all he wants to say is _I'd do anything for you, let me hold you until you stop aching so deeply_.

The prayer tears itself from his throat as he buries his head in his hands. "Lord, please forgive me."

*-*-*-*-*

Alone in his bedroom, the fear crawls back up Hardy's throat from where he's pushed it back down, choking him with careless indifference, and he curls against the door, knees to his chest in a desperate animal urge to cover his soft, weak belly.

It's been twenty years; more, now. He shouldn't still be panicking over a stupid raised backhand, for God's sake, it's pathetic. It's more than understandable for Paul, that's still fresh, he's even still carrying some of the worst of the damage, but it's twenty bloody years since either of them raised a hand to him, he should be long over it by now.

Get it together. He has to get it together.

He can't let Paul down like this, can't fall apart in front of him like this.

Just get it together.

Get up. Get off the floor. Don't be so pathetic, just stand up. Stop cowering. Stop snivelling.

_Man up._

*-*-*-*-*

For the second morning in a row, Paul's up first, though this morning his expression isn't as aggressively determined as it was the previous day. He's in the cream jumper he'd borrowed from Hardy on his first day back, needing the comfort of something thick and cosy, though he's still pink and warm from the shower and the sleeves are pushed up to his elbows.

There are two mugs of tea on the table, and he pushes the second one over to Alec as he heads instinctively for the kettle. "Here." Hardy grunts his thanks, collapsing inelegantly into a seat. "I know I have no right to ask. But if you want to talk, I'm told I'm a very good listener."

Hardy slumps over the tea, hands wrapped around it for a moment before leaning back and folding his arms defensively across his chest. Deep breaths, filling his chest with it, as though he needs enough air to spit all the words out at once. Paul feels briefly giddy, feels like he's about to open a gate and step out onto forbidden ground, or perhaps stumble off a precipice into open air.

The words come reluctantly, at first, and Hardy won't meet his gaze. "My father. He, ah, wasn't a nice man. Not like yours, mind, never as bad as that. Used a belt, sometimes."

Paul's practically holding his breath, little shallow inhalations that give him just enough oxygen but don't disrupt Alec. He wants to reach out, wants to pull him into his arms, but forces his hands to still. He can't do that again.

"They said it was early onset dementia, but he was always like that, he just got worse. He drank too much. He was always... angry. With me, with my Mam. She wasn't much better, but at least she never picked up the belt. They were always arguing, right up to the day she died. He, ah, threw plates a lot."

Another heaving breath, dark gaze flickering to Paul's face and back down to the mug of tea, full and cooling on the table. "He broke m'arm, once."

Paul can't stop himself. "Alec..."

The tableau is broken, and Hardy scowls, throwing himself forward to grab the mug and wrap his traitorous, shaking hands around it. "Ancient history."

"It still matters."

"It _shouldn't_. And it doesn't matter, not to me. They're long gone anyway."

"It matters to me," Paul says softly, reaching out a hand to where Alec's are twined, white knuckled, around the mug. Tentatively, he nudges the uppermost digit, waits for Alec to loosen his grip just a little, then peels each long freckled finger away from the mug, sliding his own fingers underneath.

Eventually Alec laughs, though it wobbles a little, and relents, letting go of the mug to rest one hand against Paul's. There's no pressure to it, just long fingers lightly touching as tense unhappy shoulders uncurl.

They sit in silence for a long minute, both of them staring at where their hands meet.

Paul can't move. He's already done too much, already overstepped boundaries he should never have even approached.

It's Alec, then, who moves, sliding his hand towards Paul, moving the contact from fingers to palm to wrist, slow enough that Paul can see it coming, could pull his arm away if he wanted, could push him away if he wanted. Unimpeded, he brushes his fingers just below Paul's elbow, where the pushed-up jumper sleeve ends, tracing the thin delicate skin there with a paperwork-calloused fingertip.

Paul shivers, and Hardy looks up at him, pulling his hand away just enough to lose contact. "Alright?"

Paul nods, his cheeks pink, and shifts his arm minutely closer.

Alec ducks his head, suddenly embarrassed too, but resumes his careful trailing.

The ping of a text message makes them both jump, and Hardy snatches his hand back to fumble for his phone. "Shit, Miller's going to kill me. I'll see you this evening?"

Paul's bright red, but nods. Alec's hopeful tone doesn't let him entertain any possibility of not being home.

"Good."

He's still staring at his forearm when the front door closes.

*-*-*-*-*

Hardy's distracted all day, still on edge from the last 48 hours - Paul's panic, Paul giving a statement, his own panic, the strange dreamlike morning. Miller does her best, taking paperwork off his hands, all too aware of why he was late to work yesterday, and dragging him outside at lunchtime in the hope of helping him blow away the cobwebs.

"This is stupid," Hardy grouses as they stumble round the harbour, blown this way and that by the icy wind.

She grins at him, hair wild. "It's good for you, sir!" She staggers sideways into him at a particularly strong gust of wind, and he braces himself for their combined weight before resuming his steady pace. "You know what else is good for you?"

"If your next sentence is anything other than multivitamins..."

"Christmas party?" She suggests hopefully, and he gives her an appropriately unimpressed look, though the wind has tousled his hair enough that she can't quite take him seriously.

"Four years, Miller. Four bloody years, and I've not been to a single Christmas party. Not going to start now."

"It'll be nice! Bring a date. And Paul, if he's up for it."

He doesn't dignify her suggestion with a response, but that evening it's a safe topic outside of parents and PTSD and fingertips on bare skin, so he ends up mentioning it over their otherwise quiet dinner.

"Miller tried to convince me to come to the station Christmas party." He drops the statement out there and shovels a forkful of rice into his mouth.

Paul raises an eyebrow. "You don't want to go?"

He instantly regrets bringing it up. "I don't do parties."

"You came to my father's."

Hardy tries not to scowl. "That was different."

Paul toys with his food, shuffling rice into little heaps and collapsing them back down with the back of his fork, not looking up. "Think they'd mind if I went? I just... it would be nice. To see people again."

Hardy blinks at him, swallows his food. "They wouldn't mind if I brought you."

Paul looks disappointed, but hides it well. "Oh, no, I won't drag you, don't worry. I'll just meet Ellie for lunch-"

"Paul. It's fine. Can't be worse than that bloody thing your father had. We'll go."

The smile that earns him is already worth the hours stuck in a room full of forced seasonal cheer. 


	10. Chapter 10

Alec Hardy stares at himself in the mirror, hair neatly brushed with a hint of gel unapologetically stolen from Paul, scruffy half-beard trimmed short. He meets his own tired gaze with a sigh.

It's not that he looks bad, exactly. He still fits the outfit, the belt still on the same loop it always has been, waistcoat still fastening neatly across his flat belly. It's just - odd. Last time he wore this it was to some event with Tess on his arm, though he can't remember exactly what it was.

Everything's changed since then.

He tugs at the bow tie, straightens the fabric around his hips. Adjusts his socks until he's satisfied they sit level, rubs a smudge off a bright silver button.

He can't put it off any longer, and straightens his shoulders before forcing himself away from the mirror.

*-*-*-*-*

Paul's waiting in the kitchen when Alec traipses dutifully down the stairs, fiddling with a cufflink, and he looks up with a start at the sound of his footsteps.

Oh.

Oh, God forgive him.

He'd expected the same tuxedo he'd already seen, though his memory of that night is blurred. He hadn't expected this.

Hardy stands in the doorway, chin out in a way that says he's trying for casual bravado, hands awkwardly curled at his sides. The waistcoat cuts close, the silky lapel of the jacket framing his narrow chest, and the kilt wraps his hips, sits neat and perfect at knee level.

Paul chokes a little at the sight of him, and has to swallow before he can speak. "Wow, Alec, you look..." Amazing - gorgeous - incredible; he panics, "Really Scottish."

"Aye, well, be a bit weird if I didn't." Hardy smooths down his kilt self consciously, making sure it lies flat against his slim hips, though it's already neat and perfect.

"Why didn't you wear that last time?" Paul can hear his voice shooting up half an octave but can't quite force it back down.

"You said wear a tuxedo so I wore a tuxedo!" Alec almost sounds petulant.

"If I'd known you had a kilt lying around I'd have said wear that!"

There's a brief standoff between them before Hardy speaks. "It's alright then?" He looks suddenly nervous. "I've not worn it here before."

A spark of bravery flickers in Paul's chest, fanned by Hardy's awkward insecurity. "You look very handsome."

Hardy gives him a sudden pink cheeked grin. "You think so?"

"Yeah."

Alec seems to remember himself, taking in Paul's own outfit. "You look good too."

Paul gives him a half smile. "Same as last time."

"You look different in it, though." He pauses, frowning a little in contemplation as he scrutinizes Paul's form. "Happier."

Ducking his head, Paul can feel his cheeks heating up. "I am."

There's a long silence, before Alec turns to grab his coat. "Better go, or they'll think we aren't coming."

*-*-*-*-*

"You're sure you'll be alright?" Hardy's anxious about the presence of alcohol, memories of that awful party and Paul's expression as he showed him a concealed silver flask still far too strong.

"Alec. I promise. It wasn't... it wasn't just the alcohol, it was... all of it." Drinking to cope with his father, trying to convince himself it was different from last time, then drinking to cover up the insistent feeling that being a pathetic bisexual alcoholic meant he deserved every cruel word, every strike.

Hardy searches his eyes for a few long seconds, then nods. "We can leave whenever you want."

Paul gives him a grateful smile, and pushes open the door.

*-*-*-*-*

Hardy hadn't realised "Work Christmas Party" had such a wide-ranging definition of 'work'. It seems to be any adult they've ever had contact with in any investigation, all the way from support workers - including Beth Latimer - council members, and Maggie Radcliffe, though he's faintly disappointed that Jocelyn doesn't seem to have made an appearance.

He ducks towards the bar, leaving Paul to chat with someone he doesn't recognise, and is soon on his way back with two glasses of orange juice, held up by someone from SOCO who wants to ask him stupid questions. He just about keeps up with the conversation, though the whole time he's watching Paul carefully, and Mark Latimer's approach makes him completely lose track of what he's saying.

"Good to see you back here, mate!" Mark's voice booms as he grins at Paul, slapping him heartily on the back.

Hardy's moving before the pained expression has even finished blooming on Paul's face. He doesn't know if it's the gesture itself, so reminiscent of Jerry Coates, or the pain of the still lingering contusions, but either way he knows it isn't good.

"Mark, hi," Paul offers weakly.

"Mark," Hardy says silkily as he comes to a halt at Paul's side, "Sorry to interrupt," - he isn't - "But I'm afraid I need to borrow Paul for a minute."

"Oh. Yeah, course. I'll catch you later, Paul?"

"Yeah, sure." Paul tosses him a careless wave before following Hardy to a quiet corner. "Thank you," he says gratefully, and it's not just for the glass of orange juice he hands over.

Hardy shrugs. "He doesn't know his own strength."

"Tell me about it," Paul mutters, thinking of large hands twisted in his jumper and cold stone against his back.

"You'll be alright?"

Paul nods.

"Want me to stick around?"

The younger man raises a brow. "If you want the whole town to be talking about how overprotective you are, yes."

Alec snorts. "Alright, I get the hint, I'll go. Got arses to kiss." He pulls a face. "Come find me if you need me." He thinks, privately, that it won't be him people are talking about, it'll be Paul's return to Broadchurch in a gorgeously well-fitted tux, but he doesn't want to say that.

"I will."

Leaving the younger man in the corner, a couple of parishioners circling hopefully, he tracks down Miller, who's ensconced with Beth and a handful of other women he vaguely recognises. She's in a knee length green dress that looks stunning, and he's mildly shocked to see her in something so glamorous.

"Evening, Miller." He's a bit too loud, and the group stare at him. He tries to ignore them, focussed on his DS.

"Hello," Ellie says, sounding unexpectedly pleased to see him. "Didn't think I'd see you here. And in a kilt! You look good, sir."

He shrugs as they peel away from the larger group, Ellie extracting them deftly with a minimum of fuss. "Paul had a nice suit, seemed a shame to miss the only occasion all year it's appropriate for."

"Wait, you brought the vicar as your date?!" She stares at him open-mouthed. "What happened to 'he's just staying for a while'?!"

Hardy feels suddenly defensive. "He's not the bloody vicar anymore, and he's not my date! And anyway, you brought Beth!"

"Exactly!"

A smile suddenly splits Hardy's glum face. "What? Really?"

"I mean - yeah." Ellie's suddenly pink. "I asked and she said yes so we're making a go of it."

If he had been someone else he might have kissed her cheek in delight. Instead he leans briefly against her, a press of his smooth jacket against her bare arm.

"Good luck to you both," he says with genuine feeling.

She mutters something unintelligible and changes the subject.

*-*-*-*-*

Paul eventually finds himself face to face with Reverend Caroline Stevenson, though she's in a smart black cocktail dress with no clerical collar, and it takes him a second to recognise her before offering her a genuine smile. "Caroline."

"Paul, hi!" She opens her arms for a hug, and he goes willingly. "Someone mentioned you were back. Should I be worried?"

She's as direct as he remembers, and Paul gives her a rueful smile. "I think God has other plans for me. I don't quite know what they are yet, but I still have faith." That faith has certainly waned a little over the years, but it's still there, his mother's words and the Christian teachings inextricably combined. His concept of 'forgiveness' has taken a battering, if nothing else.

Caroline doesn't quite manage to hide her relief. "If you change your mind, I think your parishioners would be delighted to have you back - I can hardly do a thing without hearing how Reverend Paul used to do it." She takes his hand, meeting his gaze firmly. "If you do want your position back, you have more right to it than me."

Paul shakes his head. "I'm sure. I've found... something else, I think. Maybe."

She gives him a scrutinous look. "In that case, God be with you on your journey."

He smiles at her. "Thank you. I hope He will be."

Ollie, perhaps sensing that getting the two of them together might be the perfect time for a bit of information gathering - clearly old habits die hard, for all that he's moved to London and away from the Echo - joins them, offering up a cheerful grin.

Paul gives him a wry, careful smile in return, though Caroline's is more open as he introduces himself. "Ollie Stevens, I'm Ellie Miller's nephew."

"And a journalist," Paul supplies helpfully, giving her what he hopes is a meaningful look.

It's not long before Caroline makes her excuses and leaves the two of them alone, perhaps thinking Paul would like to catch up with an old friend, perhaps thinking the tension in the air is at her presence.

Left alone with Ollie, Paul sips at his drink, reluctant to be rude - that'll be seized on in an instant as some hint of a mystery - but still silently angry at the man's part in Jack Marshall's death, and freshly angered at how Hardy was so maligned.

"I hear you're staying with DI Hardy," Ollie says brightly.

"Been doing some detective work again, have you?" Paul can hear the irritation in his own voice. "You're not at the Echo any more, your paper won't care about what I'm doing or who I live with."

"Just making conversation," Ollie offers easily, looking a little hurt, and Paul feels ashamed at jumping to conclusions.

"Sorry. Yes, I'm living with Alec. Just for a bit."

"Must be weird." Ollie's face is guileless, open. Inviting.

Paul laughs. "A little. He's been very kind to take me in."

"Planning on getting your own place? Maybe heading back to the church?"

"No, I, uh, haven't really thought long term yet." Please don't ask Alec that, don't remind him.

"What brings you back? I thought you were gone for good."

"Just - circumstances changed." He can feel his face paling, knows he's given away too much with his body's reaction.

Ollie waits, and his silence is deafening despite the sounds of the party around them. Paul can't stand it, can't stand the expectant expression on the younger man's face, so adds, "Family stuff."

Ollie's face clears, and Paul hates himself for the flood of relief at the trite reward. Ollie's not being a friend, he's being a journalist, digging and digging, he shouldn't rise to it, but the questions are so innocent, just polite conversation, and he feels foolish for being so on edge.

"Parents? Yeah, they can be difficult. What happened?"

"I..." The words catch in his throat. Paul can feel himself stuttering, feel his heart clattering in his chest, sweat prickling at the base of his spine, and Ollie's eyes are too sharp as they watch him.

There's suddenly a gentle hand resting on his arm, and Paul closes his eyes briefly in gratitude. "Alec." The relief on his face must be obvious, but he can't find it in himself to hide it.

"Oliver. Are you bothering people again?"

"I'm not bothering you, am I Paul? Just wondering if he's going to be back playing football, that's all." He looks briefly to Paul for support but gets nothing back, and his face closes off a little, some of the act dropped.

"Never commit a crime, you're a rubbish liar. Go on, go find someone else to pick apart." Hardy stares down the younger man until, somewhat shamefaced, he hurries away.

"You ok?" He turns to look at Paul, bending just a little to be able to look up into his eyes.

"I, ah, I think so." Paul blinks, and looks away, shoving his hands in his pockets to hide the shaking.

"He's a little sod," Hardy scowls, looking round to check Ollie's well out of his sight. "Always sticking his nose in where it's not wanted."

"He's a journalist, he can't help it." But Paul can't be too defensive when he's so grateful for Hardy's intervention.

Alec's shoulders untense a little now the threat seems to have subsided, scowl vanishing. "He bothers you again I won't be able to help sticking my foot up his-"

" _Alec!_ " Paul's protest is half horrified and half delighted.

"Oh you know I won't really," Alec says, but adds conspiratorially with bright eyed glee, "But I might clap him in cuffs and feed him to Aunty Ellie for breakfast."

*-*-*-*-*

"There's something going on there," Ollie says to Maggie, glancing back at the two men with a pensive look on his face.

Maggie tugs him to one side, further away from trouble. "Ollie Stevens, if you get in the way of that man finally getting the slightest bit of happiness, I will personally string you up on the town walls."

"Which man?"

She blinks, looks over at where Alec Hardy's head is bent towards Paul, a half smile on his face as he responds to him with a comment that makes the younger man laugh.

"Either of them. Now scram."

*-*-*-*-*

It's late when they leave, the party descending into more drunk and disorderly behavior than either of them fancies dealing with. Ellie kisses Paul on the cheek, and then with a roguish smile does the same to Alec; he goes pink cheeked with it, eyebrows furrowing, but she's already spun away back to Beth, both of them well on their way to drunkenness, shoes kicked off and hands entwined as they dance.

"Bloody menace," he grumbles to Paul, who just laughs at him as they don coats and scarves over loosened shirts and undone bow ties. Hardy's in his spare scarf, Paul still wearing the dark blue one Hardy first lent him months ago, soft wool a welcome barrier against the chill air as they step outside. They walk in silence until the party is just a faint noise in the distance.

"You'll never guess what Maggie asked me," Paul announces to the empty street, face scrupulously forward.

"What?" Better not be anything worth publishing.

"She asked if you were a traditionalist." He gives Alec a quick white toothed grin, glinting in the moonlight, before looking away again.

Hardy looks blank, then scowls. "What's she asking you for!?"

Paul doesn't answer that one. "She's made me _incredibly_ curious. So, are you? Wearing it, ah - traditionally?"

Alec grins at him, giddy with the party and the late hour and the brush of Paul's arm against his as they walk. "You can find out, if you want."

"Oh," Paul says, and Hardy's heart lurches in his chest.

"Fuck - sorry, that was so inappropriate-"

"Bit funny though," Paul grins back, eyes bright and dancing.

Alec laughs out his relief, briefly linking his arm through Paul's to stagger together for a few steps before shoving his hands back into his coat pockets. He ignores the question, though his heart still races unsteadily.

"I had a good night," he says eventually, softly into the darkness, their footsteps echoing in the empty street.

"Me too." Paul gives him another shy grin.

"Better than the last party we were at."

Paul snorts, then quietens. "I still can't believe you came. And then came back after." He shivers a little at the memory of it.

"I couldn't just leave you there."

"You hardly knew me!"

"I wouldn't leave anyone there," Hardy says firmly.

Paul looks away. Of course. Alec Hardy's a good man, a good police officer. Of course he'd intervene, whoever it was, seeing someone that pathetic.

He can feel the pleasant warmth of the evening draining away.

Hardy continues, oblivious to Paul's dismay. "I know it was awful. I wish it hadn't happened. But having you living with me..."

This is it. He's out.

Paul thinks he might throw up.

"... it's been wonderful. And I'm so grateful that you called me. Because it got us here. You, here. Um, with me."

Paul stops dead. Alec walks on a few paces before turning around to face him, taking in the tension holding Paul frozen.

"Shit. I'm sorry, that's an awful thing to say. After all you've been through..."

"Alec. Stop."

Hardy stutters into silence, eyes wide and almost fearful in the dimly lit street.

"You really - you like having me staying with you?"

He nods, and Paul steps a little closer, eyes desperately searching his face.

"You like having me around?"

"Yeah." His voice is uneven, but he wants to say it. Doesn't want it to just be Paul speaking, whispering, into the night air. Confessing.

"You like... me?"

"I... yes." His voice is a whisper too, and he closes his eyes at that admission. He can't bear to see Paul's expression.

There's a brush of fingers against the sleeve of his jacket. A chill hand curls against his jaw, a soft pressure that grounds him when he feels so light he might float away.

Cool lips press against his own, and he parts them with a sigh of effortless surrender.

It doesn't last long, but he's slow to open his eyes, savouring the last hint of pressure against his skin. When he finally looks up, Paul's in front of him, a hand covering his mouth.

"Alec, I - I'm so - I don't- I'm _sorry_!" He whirls and is gone, a half run up the street towards home.

Hardy can't move. If he takes a step his knees will give in and send him tumbling to the floor, and he feels so brittle that it might shatter him. All he can see is Paul's dark form disappearing into the night, and his throat is too tight with the sudden threat of tears to call him back, to apologise or try and scramble for an explanation that might undo it all.

He knew, he _knew_ Paul was vulnerable, and still let his feelings spill out into the open, too obvious, too transparent with his longing, and now Paul's trying to repay him in the worst possible way.

And he let him do it, just stood there while Paul debased himself, tried to offer himself up in payment for basic human decency when it's Hardy's own awful selfishness that's kept him in his home so long.

He feels sick; wishes he'd brought his medication but he shouldn't have needed it at a Christmas party of all places. He should have known he'd condemn himself, weaken fatally when he should have been strong, but for just a moment he'd been so convinced that it could be real. That Paul could truly want him.

But all he's done is take advantage of a confused and abused man. At least Paul couldn't go through with it, at least he came to his senses before pushing himself any further, before Alec could do irrevocable damage.

It's a long time before he feels able to move, shivers rippling over his skin in waves as the winter wind chills him, and when he finally staggers forward he can feel every step aching in his bones.

*-*-*-*-*

He's fucked.

He'll just find a bottle and fall into it and maybe never come out.

That's if he can do it before Hardy gets back and rightfully beats the shit out of him.

God damn it there's no alcohol in any of the fucking cupboards.

He slams the last one shut with a vicious curse, and that takes the last of his strength, the vanished anger all that had been keeping him upright. The heat in his gut turns to ice and his legs to jelly, and he drops to his knees on the floor with a heartrending sob, curled in on himself on the floor.

He's ruined everything.

*-*-*-*-*

Alec unlocks the door with ice cold fingers and slips through into the dark hallway.

The only light is in the kitchen, and he creeps forward, uncertain.

"Paul?"

There's a sharp intake of breath, and when he steps through the doorway he can see Paul stumbling to his feet, face red and tear streaked as he presses himself back against the wall.

"Don't come near me!" His voice is high and tight.

Hardy freezes. "I won't, I'll stay right here. Or I'll go, I can leave if you want."

It's boiling hot inside after the wintery outdoors. Moving slowly, he strips off his coat, folds it and places it on the floor, though the table's only a pace away. Paul's eyes are fixed on his hands as they grip and tense and move, before flicking back up to his face.

He looks terrified, and Alec wants to cry at the sight of him, the sight of what he's done.

He wants to hold out a hand, offer a gentle touch to shoulder or hand, but instead tugs the traitorous things behind his back. "I'm so sorry, I know I shouldn't feel like this, it's unfair to you. I should have hidden it better, but I'll never touch you, I promise."

Paul blinks at him, chest heaving, sweat beading on his brow. "But I... I kissed you, I should never have... Why are you _sorry_? Aren't you _angry_?"

Alec gulps back his self hatred as he stares at Paul's forlorn figure. He looks like he's expecting to be shouted out, or perhaps hit, and that doesn't make any sense at all. "Why would I be angry with you? I gave you the wrong idea, you were just being kind to me..."

"Kind to you?!" Paul closes his eyes, briefly, but when he reopens them they make a quick left-right flicker, and Hardy's glad his hands are still safely tucked behind his back out of sight. "After all you've done, and I just throw myself at you like that, you've every right to..." He trails off, looking miserably at the ground.

Hardy feels suddenly like he's missed something very important. Maybe more than one thing. "Wait. What?"

Paul curls in himself even further, arms folded across his stomach.

"You think I'm going to hit you?" Oh, and Paul's flinch at that tells Alec everything he needs to know. "No. No, I would _never_. D'you understand? I would never hit you."

"But-"

"Never. I don't care what you've done, I won't hit you."

Paul looks suddenly defiant, jaw clenched. "You hit my father."

Alec sighs and rolls his eyes, a little more relaxed now Paul's panic seems to be receding. "He bloody well deserved it." Before Paul can say anything, he snaps, "And you don't. At all."

Paul looks like he's gearing up to say something else, chin up and starting to bristle, but when Alec steps forward he flinches again. His bravado only seems to go so far. Hardy ignores the reaction, goes to the kettle and fills it. "Sit down."

There's a moment of silence as Paul watches him warily.

"Sit down. Please."

Paul perches on the edge of the seat furthest from the kettle. Hardy ignores him, getting mugs and teabags out of the cupboards, pouring the boiling water, and finally taking a seat. He sets Paul's mug of his preferred night time blend in the centre of the table, leans back with his own mug of chamomile so he's well out of reach. After a few seconds Paul reaches out and takes the peace offering, cradling it between his hands.

Hardy braces himself. "I think there's been a misunderstanding."

"You didn't know I'm bisexual," Paul recites bitterly. "I thought you liked me. I fucked up."

Hardy blinks. This isn't how interviews usually go. "You are, then? Bisexual?"

"Pretty fucking obvious."

"Not to me," Hardy says mildly, though his heart's going a mile a minute. If his pacemaker kicks in now he's going to be _pissed_. "I thought... Was that kiss just because you thought you owed me?"

Paul looks suddenly confused. "That's not why... I just... I really like you. And I thought you knew I was bi and you might... like me back. I'm really, really sorry."

"You kissed me. Because you like me." Something in Alec's brain is short circuiting. It doesn't make sense. He half wants to ask, like a nervous teenager, _do you 'like me' like me_. It's been a long time since he's had this conversation with anyone. "Does that mean you'd be open to - a relationship. With me?" His voice cracks a little on the question.

Paul looks freshly pale, but nods, jaw clenched. He seems almost as nervous as he had done when Hardy first entered the room.

"Oh," Alec says. His heart's gone mad now, but he can't stop the grin spreading across his face. "Yes."

"What?" Now it's Paul's turn to look confused, but there's the slightest hint of hope dawning on his troubled face.

"Yes," Alec repeats. He puts the tea down, extends his hands across the table, invitingly open.

"You aren't throwing me out."

"I'm not throwing you out," he confirms, though his grin settles into something more serious.

"You want to..." And Paul falters, though he puts down the mug of tea as though he might reach out.

"I want to try that kiss again. Please."

"Oh," Paul says. "Oh." His eyes are suddenly damp again, and Alec can feel himself panicking, but then a beatific smile spreads across Paul's face and he reaches out to take Alec's hands, curling trembling fingers around him.

Alec sags in relief, and matches the smile with his own.

They sit there for a long minute, Paul briefly letting go to dash away tears, before Alec ventures, "So, can I? Try again, I mean."

Paul nods firmly, and follows up with a fervent _yes_ just in case that wasn't enough, though his eyes betray his disbelief.

Reluctantly Alec lets go to stand and move around the table, moving slowly enough to not spook a still on-edge Paul, who staggers to his feet.

He rests one hand on Paul's bicep, brings the other up slowly - so achingly slowly - to cup his jaw, brush a thumb along a sharp cheekbone, noticing the pale dusting of freckles there. He waits until Paul's eyes flicker to his mouth before leaning in to press an oh so gentle kiss to chapped lips.

Paul's eyes drift closed and he reaches out a hand, curling it around the soft black satin of Alec's shoulder.

The kiss is chaste, dry, no more contact than the first, but it's everything Hardy's been dreaming of for weeks, _months_ , and after a few seconds he has to pull back to let his irrepressible grin spread. "Alright?" He asks.

Paul blinks at him, and Alec's suddenly taken by how very green his eyes are around the wide pupils. He doesn't say anything, but pulls Alec back to him with the barest pressure on his arm, pressing their lips together once again.

This time there's more to the kiss than a simple chaste press of skin on skin; tongues questioning, hands rising up to curl in hair, bodies coming together until they're both half breathless. He tastes the floral chamomile; finds that he doesn't mind the anise from the fennel when he's tasting it from Paul's mouth; delights in the sweet flavour that must be uniquely Paul.

Over long minutes desperation fades to relief, relaxes into satiety, and they pull apart, tousled and pink cheeked, Paul running a reverent hand along Alec's jaw. Alec catches it and presses another kiss to his palm, eyes dark.

"You're alright?" He asks again, voice low and husky.

"I am... So much better than alright." Paul sounds just as wrecked. "You have no idea how long... How often I..."

Alec pulls a face. "I hope it wasn't as long as me."

Paul huffs out a laugh, pressing a kiss to the scruff on Alec's cheek. "This is incredibly forward, but it's late and I'm exhausted. Can we to go to bed? Just to sleep."

Hardy looks uncertain, and Paul adds, faintly embarrassed, "I don't want to wake up and think this has all been just a fantasy. But we don't have to, I know it's a lot."

Hardy can't meet his eyes, suddenly shy now Paul's doing the pushing, but rumbles out, "Aye," to Paul's delighted relief.

*-*-*-*-*

He doesn't find out what Alec Hardy wears under his kilt; he changes in his own bedroom and by the time he's hovering awkwardly at Alec's door the man's already in bed, on his back and staring at the ceiling, face thrown into stark relief by the bedside lamp.

"Hi," Paul offers.

"Hi. Come in."

"This was a bad idea."

Alec sits up, exasperated. He's clad in a t-shirt, and looks soft and rumpled in the dim light. "This was _your_ idea."

"Well it was a bad one," Paul scowls. "I'll just sleep in my bed."

Alec doesn't want to push but at the same time the thought of Paul in his bed - both of them there, not just Paul on his own, pale and injured - is too tempting. "Please? If it's awful you can go."

"It won't be awful," Paul protests, swaying back on his heels. He's almost there, Alec thinks. Just teetering between acceptance and running.

"It might be. I might snore," he teases gently. "I'm all pointy edges. Sometimes my feet get cold and I'll put them on you and wiggle my toes. You'll hate it."

"Stop it," Paul laughs, but it's enough to break the tension a little and drag him inside, until he's standing at the empty side of the bed.

"I have nightmares," Alec adds more seriously. "Sometimes bad ones."

Paul's face softens at that. "I know. Me too." He watches Alec in silence for a long moment, then looks down at the duvet, smoothing it out with a shaking hand before making up his mind and pulling it back.

When he slides under the covers, Alec's smile is blinding.

They lie in silence, both staring at the ceiling. It's Paul that reaches out first, hand tentative across the space between them, and he brushes it against Alec's leg, barely pressing against the soft cotton. Alec reaches down and entwines their fingers, bringing Paul's hand up to rest on his thin chest.

Paul looks over at Alec, hair spread carelessly across the pillow, dark eyes solemnly meeting his gaze. His heart is suddenly, unbearably full. "Goodnight, Alec."

"Goodnight, Paul."


	11. Chapter 11

**Paul's past - eighteen months ago**

His three am thoughts race. _He wasn't there. You're losing it. The drink's finally rotted your brain like he said it would._

_Why would Alec Hardy just show up at your door?_

When he heads down for breakfast the next morning, clad in one of the suits that are now all that comprise his acceptable wardrobe, his father seems just as normal as ever. But then he rarely seems angry until it's too late.

"Good morning, Paul."

"Good morning, Father."

They eat in silence, cutlery clinking loud enough that it makes his head hurt. Part hangover, part sleep deprivation, part just feeling sorry for himself.

He wants to ask, wants to check reality, but there's no way of knowing if any answers he gets are true. And if he's made it all up, a pathetic fantasy of someone finally, finally missing him, the consequences of revealing his delusion aren't worth it. Instead he sits in silence.

When he's alone, despairing and aching, he allows himself to think about the dark haired visitor. Remembers the crumpled suit, the scruffy half-beard. Surely if he'd made it up he would have chosen a more appropriate white knight, someone smartly dressed and sweetly spoken, not an awkward man to whom he's already spilled too many secrets. But perhaps that's the charm - Alec Hardy knows who he is, and still he came.

Perhaps, he thinks, he should find out. Better to know if it's drunkenness or madness or some other thing, than to believe himself saved by some fantasy.

It takes him a few days to work up the courage to call, to find the non emergency number for Broadchurch station and ask to be put through to Hardy. His mobile phone is long gone, shards against a wall, the first victim of his father's sudden rage some months ago, and he says a brief prayer as he waits to be transferred, fingers cold and trembling as he holds the house phone to his ear.

The sound of his name from Hardy's voice sends ripples through him, a visceral full body shiver that reaches all the way to his toes. "Alec. This, ah, this sounds mad but were you - here? A few days ago?" _Please say yes. Please, please say yes._

"Briefly, yes. What's going on?"

Oh thank God. He's not gone mad, it was real it was real it was real.

Hardy sounds concerned, confused, a hint of the detective underpinning his tone. Paul can't help his relief as he bats away the enquiry. "Nothing," he lies, his tongue heavy in his mouth. _All I can think about is how wonderful it was to see you at my door. To be reminded that there are things in the world outside of the dusty confines of this house._ He steels himself. "But if you wanted to visit again that might be - nice." _You don't have to. You won't want to. Sorry, this is ridiculous. Please don't shout at me, I know this is stupid._

There's a long silence. He almost takes it back, but doesn't want to embarrass himself further with his stumbling words, instead smearing a hand over his tousled hair, down his face as though he could hide from the response.

"I can come Saturday?"

Just like that. Like it's nothing.

His father has a party on Saturday, nominally his 65th but more of an excuse to show off his newly returned and reformed son. Paul's already been informed he will be playing a handful of piano pieces, rolled out to perform and then expected to 'circulate appropriately'.

He panics at Alec's offer; the thought of _not being alone_ at the event is too tempting. Spits orders like he owns the place, like the detective will do his bidding, but somehow it doesn't break the tentative thread woven between them.

Alec's voice is firm and steady. "I'll be there."

When he puts the phone down the relief of it all brings hot tears streaming down his cheeks.

*-*-*-*-*

Paul spends the days before the party in a state of anxiety, practicing the music until his shoulders and hands ache, though they're perfect even when he's had a drink. It's a welcome distraction. In his nerves he's careless, sloppy; his father catches him watering down the whiskey trying to cover his thieving. He gets a kicking for it, but the silver flask is still full and ready, stashed away before he returned to cover his tracks, and the mouthfuls he took keep the pain at bay.

There's a polite knock on his door as the hour of the party nears; one of the staff, not his father. "He'd like you downstairs to welcome guests." The voice is soft; they're all kind to him, seeing hints of his father's rage, though they've never seen the man at his worst. They won't offer to help in any significant way, and he wouldn't ask it of them - he knows where their loyalties lie - but their small measures of support, fresh flowers on his desk and the occasional meal in his room when he can't quite manage to leave, have been bright sparks in the dark days.

"Coming."

He straightens his bow tie in the mirror, does something haphazard with his hair that doesn't remind him of Saturday afternoons writing sermons in warm jumpers, tries not to meet his own eyes. Tucks the silver flask into his pocket, already sloshing where he's taken a gulp to steady himself. He tries very hard not to think about Alec Hardy, about whether he'll even bother showing up.

Greeting the guests makes his cheeks ache, polite handshakes and cheek busses, permanent smile pinned to his face as he stands side by side with his father. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up to be so close when he knows the slightest mistake will have repercussions.

It's infuriating, feeling like he's a teenager again, a child, when he knows he's an adult, he's been free and independent for years. He had never expected to fall back into this timid, cowed persona, and he _hates_ it, but the programming runs too deep in him.

Half zoned out as he nods and smiles, he fantasises about Hardy coming through the front door, giving his father a bollocking - or arresting him for some unknown crime - and striding away, Paul walking tall at his side.

As soon as he's able, he hides in the bathroom to take quick, burning mouthfuls of the whiskey. He tries to nab a glass of champagne, but is neatly cut off by an offer of sparkling fruit juice; clearly the waitstaff have been well briefed.

He plays the piano note-perfect, and people whisper-shout compliments in his ear, not enough to distract him from the only thing he can actually do worth a damn. He knows his role; play the three prescribed movements, bow to the audience, speak to guests. When he's done, three pieces, no more no less, he stands and ducks his head just enough to politely receive applause before reaching for the champagne flute filled with fruit juice, and at last, at _last_ , a familiar voice reaches his ears.

"Should you be drinking that?"

The rush of relief makes him giddy. Makes him want to show off, and he does, shows him the flask tucked into his pocket. _My father doesn't control everything_ , he wants to say. H _e thinks he does but he doesn't see this_. And quietly, in the back of his mind, he wants very much to say _Look - I deserve everything he does to me_.

Now he's stood up he realises quite how much of the whiskey he's managed to drink, sipping in secret, and Hardy's questions make his head spin.

"How long have you been..." Alec's eyes are wide, something that might be horror or disgust resting on that handsome face. He obviously doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to speak it and make it real.

Well Paul can say it, he doesn't care any more. "Drinking?" Just a word, doesn't mean anything. Doesn't mean failure, doesn't mean disappointment, doesn't mean regret. "Twenty years, or four months, depending on what you're asking." He'd only lasted two months with his father before failing.

The rest of the night is a blur, though he thinks he sees Alec more than once, thinks they talk a little while, but he's managed more of the whiskey and everything is pleasantly numb. It doesn't matter anyway, he won't see him again, not after being so drunk and pathetic in front of him. He'll leave, and he won't come back, and he'll be alone again. Even if he did come back, it's too late now. Paul can feel the path he's on, he's walked it before, and this time there's no kind priest to offer him an intervention.

At the end of the party, as Jerry's saying goodbyes, Paul stows away - steals, in a way, though his father will pay the caterers for them - two bottles of whiskey, tucking them in a cupboard to pick up later.

He somehow makes it to bed without being confronted, but the next morning breakfast is icy. "You were an embarrassment," is the opening greeting, and it mostly goes downhill from there.

He wasn't even that drunk, just a little to take the edge off, and Hardy probably saw the worst of it, no one else would have noticed. Other guests were far worse off than him, but no, it's him that gets the scolding, the stinging slaps, the judgement.

Paul takes himself, miserably, back to bed. He hears the phone ring once or twice, but it doesn't really penetrate the cloud that's settled over him.

When he drags himself out of bed, days later, there's barely half a bottle of the whiskey left, tucked in a drawer.

He's slinking back from an icy breakfast when the phone rings beside him, and out of instinct he snaps out a hand to grab it. "'lo?"

If his father heard how he'd answered, he'd get a smack, but he can't quite bring himself to care.

"Paul? It's Alec. I wanted to check you were alright." Alec's voice is warm and heavy, a honeyed balm against his skin. Paul can't quite process that he's bothered calling after all the shit he pulled at the party, it doesn't make sense.

"I, ah, I'm..." He can feel himself fumbling over his words, pauses, takes another run at it.

"I'm ok. It's different here, it's not like... not like Broadchurch." He wants to say it's not like _home_. He doesn't know if he means the home he once had here, or the salt brushed vicarage in Broadchurch, or even a tiny studio in London he'd been too drunk to really remember properly, but anything would be better than this.

"You're OK? You're safe?"

God no. But I don't think he's going to kill me any time soon. "I'm not in danger."

"Paul?"

His gut lurches, a sickening feeling of vertigo as his father's voice echoes through the hall, and he scrambles away from the wall, fumbling for the button to end the call.

"Who is it?" It's low, dangerous; he knows that tone and it never ends well.

"No one - wrong number - " He somehow manages to hang up and shove the phone back on the holder, backing away as his father scowls.

"We'll have words about this, Paul. I'll speak to you at dinner."

The threat makes him swallow hard, watching his father's hands as he stalks past, ready for the quick snap that'll bring pain, but there's nothing.

This evening, then. He can save the last of the bottle for afterwards.

*-*-*-*-*

He waits all through dinner, silent, biting back preemptive defenses. He knows by now they don't help.

When the plates are all cleared, they wait at the table until the last staff member has nodded their goodbye. Paul lifts a heavy hand from the table in farewell; he can't bring himself to speak.

Jerry stands, and Paul rises with him, head low and hanging.

"I will not have this," he says sharply. "I will not have you inviting men over to my home, disrupting my events, bringing alcohol and who knows what else. Do you understand?"

"Yes, father," Paul says dully.

Jerry's voice picks up as he settles into his diatribe. "Your scruffy little boyfriend isn't to come here, isn't to call here, ever again."

Paul looks up at that, scowls a little.

"He's not my boyfriend-"

It's a stupid mistake, and he cringes away from his father's furious countenance.

"How dare you talk back to me!"

"Sorry, I didn't-" Paul backs away, thinks briefly about turning and running but it's too late, even as he half-skips backwards there's a wide hand wrapped around his wrist, tight enough that he cries out, wriggling like a worm on a hook as he feels the delicate bones grind against each other.

It takes all his father's strength to fling him against the wall - Jerry's larger, though not by much, but Paul can't resist, can't fight back. He'd tried to be the bigger man at first, when the niggling tendrils of abuse started, trying to _turn the other cheek_ , and by the time it had reached full strikes he'd been too cowed to speak up.

This time, though, the aspersions against Alec are too much. Alec could never be his boyfriend, he would never demean himself like that, but he's a good cop and a good man. The tiniest spark of rebellion flares into life in Paul's chest.

"He's not my boyfriend and it shouldn't matter anyway! He's a good man! Not like _you_!" He hears something of the reverend in his voice then, a hint of the passion and fervour he'd occasionally turned on the Broadchurch congregation. He spits the words like they burn him, and Jerry's face turns puce with rage. With an ugly snarl, he lunges forward, wrapping his hands around Paul's throat with a brutal suddenness.

Two bright spots of pain must be thumbs, either side of his Adam's apple making it too tight to swallow, though the saliva is thick and cloying in his mouth. Fingertips dig in to the soft delicate column of his neck, thick fingers cutting off air and blood flow and _life_.

His hands scrabble, but shock has made him weak, and the weakness is only getting worse as the world closes in around him, blackening at the edges.

Paul wonders, as he crumples down against the wall, if he'll still be alive to see his father turn seventy.

By some miracle, his collapse seems to bring an end to it. Footsteps announce his father's departure, and Paul curls into a ball, sobbing helplessly into his arms, one hand scrabbling at his neck to loosen the tie and button so he can just breathe, hauling desperate gasps of air into aching lungs as his head spins.

He doesn't notice Jerry's return until it's too late, the familiar swish-crack of the cane an instant's warning before agony blooms across his shoulders.

"Do you lie on your back for him? Get on your knees for him? Like some common _whore_?"

Paul tries to force out a no, but the words are lost in his pained cries and the swish of the stick, over and over and over. The blood roaring in his ears deafens him, and the injuries blend into a single sheet of agony that blinds him.

When his body is nothing but pain, his voice cracked into silence, he thinks it finally stops.

It's hours before he has the strength to move, to drag his ruined body up the stairs and to his room, fumbling at the key to lock himself inside, for all the good it will do when his father has a key too.

The whiskey dulls a little of the pain, but it's not enough, nowhere near enough. He prays; cries; whimpers for his mother to come for him, for Alec to come for him, for someone, anyone, to save him. Eventually, he somehow lifts himself into the armchair that faces the door, though the pressure burns every inch of his skin, watching the handle for any hint of movement.

Finally, finally, he falls into a fretful, terrified sleep.

**Paul's past - two months ago**

Paul lounges across the sofa, eyeing up the view outside as the sun sets in a blaze of colours. There's a faint paint stain across the back of his hand and down the side of his thumb, resistant to his scrubbing, but he quite likes the reminder of the young boy who daubed him happily with the paintbrush that afternoon.

There's a rattling from the kitchen that suggests chaos, and he lifts himself half upright to peer through the doorway. "Alright in there?" he calls, face scrunched in faint concern.

"'m fine!" is the slightly panicked response, and Paul snorts.

"You don't sound fine!"

Hardy appears in the doorway, scowling. "Whose stupid idea was it to do homemade guacamole?"

Paul grins up at him. "I don't know, some lovely man."

The frown folds Hardy's face further. "I've never peeled a bloody avocado in my life."

"I'm almost a millennial, I should know how. I think I'm supposed to like them on toast." Alec's blank look makes Paul shake his head. "Never mind. Want a hand?"

Alec dithers. Paul looks comfortable, all stretched out on the sofa, a sliver of stomach showing at the bottom of his jumper where he's twisted round to talk, and he's loathe to disturb the man. On the other hand, he's making a right state of the dinner, and Ellie'll be here any minute. "Yes?"

With a groan that makes Hardy feel guilty, Paul half rolls off the sofa and clambers to his feet. "I'm taking all the credit when she gets here."

Alec grumbles halfheartedly but catches him for a quick kiss as he ducks through the doorway. He trails after Paul into the kitchen, which is as tidy as it usually is when Hardy cooks complicated meals alone, cleaning as he goes and following mis en place to a 't' as he tries to mitigate cooking stress with enforced order. The only chaos is the bundle of avocados and splatters of green across the surface. "You've done one already, look," Paul points out helpfully, examining the halves thrown messily in a bowl.

"Nearly chopped my bloody hand off," Hardy grizzles, nudging Paul towards the chopping board before the younger man takes a wooden spoon to the pan on the stove and really starts interfering. Paul sets to it, though he's not got much more skill, leaving Hardy to add chilli and lemon juice and salt and who knows what else, measuring precisely and tipping it all into the bowl.

It's not long before Paul's finished his task and Alec mashes the mixture aggressively. When he pauses to examine his work, Paul sticks a finger in and scoops out a little bit. "Oi!" Alec slaps his hand but it's too late and Paul just gives him a cheeky grin before shoving the stolen morsel into his mouth.

"Needs more salt."

"Needs more this, needs more that," Hardy parrots mockingly, "Go away and sit down." He swats him away, but not before the younger man manages to dance around him to swipe the bag of nacho chips on the side. "There better be some of those left for Miller!" He calls threateningly, ignoring the second bag he has stashed away.

"Can't hear you over the crunching," Paul hollers back, settling back on the sofa with a contented sigh, fumbling for the remote with licked-clean fingers.

When Ellie arrives, bearing home made trifle, Paul greets her with a delighted kiss to the cheek and a half hug, while Hardy offers her a gruff nod.

"Something smells good."

"Chili, as promised," Hardy reassures her, as she sets down the trifle.

*-*-*-*-*

As the film credits play, Ellie's still doggedly dipping nachos into the guacamole, despite Alec's suggestion that it would last until tomorrow and she doesn't have to finish it all. He looks over at her hopefully where she's curled up in the armchair. "Trifle?"

Ellie drops the nachos. "Forgot that. I'll get it."

She comes back with bowls of dessert as Paul scans through Netflix to find another film, and when he leans back, trifle in hand, he squashes himself firmly against Hardy's arm, as close as he can get. The detective gives a perfunctory grumble at the intrusion but rests a hand on his leg, rubbing just a little with his thumb.

Paul shoves a large spoonful of trifle in his mouth and rolls his eyes. "This is _good_ , Ellie!"

"Didn't say that about my chilli," Hardy says reproachfully.

"I was too busy eating it!"

When the second film ends, Ellie looks over at the two men, Paul's head tucked neatly into the crook of Alec's neck and Hardy's arm around his shoulders holding him tight. Both men appear fast asleep, but as she stands Hardy's eyes flicker open to look up at her, though he doesn't move.

"Night, sir," she whispers.

He gives her a tired half smile, but before she can turn away he nods at the blanket pooled at the corner of the sofa. "Y'mind?"

She grins back, shaking out the thick fabric to drape it over the two of them. "Not often I get to tuck my boss in."

He lets out a quiet grumble but doesn't argue as she tugs it up over his chest, looking up at her from beneath heavy lids. "Say hi to Beth for us?"

"Will do. See you Monday."

He lifts a hand in farewell as she ducks out of the room, eyes already drifting shut again as he leans into the crown of Paul's head.

**Present Day**

Jerry Coates's five year prison sentence starts today. Grievous bodily harm. Should have been more severe, kept him in prison another two years at a minimum, but an early guilty plea and a good lawyer had softened the charge. He'll be out in less than three.

If Hardy's honest, it was far more than he had initially expected for a well off man with no criminal history, but the steady litany of assaults that Paul had recounted to him, and later to the police in a second formal statement, had commanded a hefty sentence. He hates that he feels grateful for Jerry pleading guilty, but he's seen how wrong these things can go so he'll take what he can get.

Paul's handling it about as well as could be expected.

It's a Monday but they've both taken the day off, spending it cleaning the house from top to bottom, radio blaring. Paul scrubs tiles furiously and vacuums, enjoying the physical effort of it; Alec uses his extra height to clean high corners and wash the windows. When they collapse, exhausted, onto the sofa as the sun sets, their home sparkles and smells of cleaning products.

There's stew on the stove, a joint effort. Though it smells good, Paul doesn't do much more than pick at it, moving it around his plate.

"You should try and eat," Hardy cajoles him.

"Sorry." Paul looks up at him mournfully through hair that's disheveled by their day's work.

Alec's heart aches. "Ah, love." He doesn't have words for it, so instead extends a hand across the table.

Without hesitation Paul puts down his fork and wraps his hand around Hardy's, stroking his thumb over sharp knuckles. Alec gives him a minute of reassuring repetitive movement before tugging him close to press a soft kiss to the back of his hand, gazing over him with soft dark eyes.

"Maybe just some tea?" Alec offers hopefully.

Paul sighs and gives his hand a little squeeze before letting go. "I'm alright." He picks up his fork and determinedly shovels at the mashed potato. Alec doesn't call him on it, instead just giving him a little nudge under the table, hooking his foot around Paul's ankle.

*-*-*-*-*

They're doing their teeth side by side when it happens, Paul spitting in the sink and then a sudden frozen set to his body. He's caught in his own reflection, eyes fixed on his own gaze in the mirror.

Alec puts down his toothbrush, spits foam out into the bath so he can speak, hovering at a distance he knows is far enough to be unthreatening while close enough to be a comfort. "It's ok, Paul, you're safe. We're at home, I'm here. Can you look at me, love? Just turn around for me, that's it."

Paul's eyes are wide and terrified, but he manages to peel himself away from the mirror and press his back against the sink, gaze wild but finally settling on Alec as he gulps in breaths.

"Aye, that's good. Can I touch your arm? I'll be gentle, promise."

After a long moment he gets a miniscule nod, and creeps forward enough to curl his hand gently around Paul's bicep, ducking his head to soften his gaze and look up at him through his fringe.

Minutes of gentle rubbing of thumb against muscle, and rumbled promises of _safe_ and _home_ , eventually bring Paul back into the room, and he heaves a great sigh as he folds forward into Alec's welcoming arms.

"You're alright, love, you're alright." He murmurs quiet nothings against Paul's skin, holding him close with loose arms as the younger man's chest heaves against his.

"I just - I looked like him. For a second."

They sway a little, entwined, and Alec kisses Paul's neck gently where the rabbit pulse jumps against his lips.

"I hate that I have his eyes," Paul finally confesses.

Hardy hums and squeezes him just a little tighter. "I thought you had the same eyes, when I first met him," he says frankly. He leans back to see Paul's face, looking deep into gold-flecked green. "Now I've seen yours so close they're nothing alike. Yours have - soul. And little yellow bits. And I like them." Paul huffs a little at his fumbling words, and Hardy grins at him. "Ach look, you've made me soft." More seriously, he adds, "Want me to leave you on your own for a bit? Or stay?"

That earns him a grateful twist of lips that might almost have been a smile. "I'm ok. I'll just wash my face, you go to bed."

Alec nods, rising up on his tiptoes to press a kiss against blonde hair. Colour is finally starting to return to Paul's cheeks, and once their faces are level he looks Alec in the eye, gaze heavy and solemn. "I love you," he says.

They've not said it much, it's only been a few months since Paul first whispered them to him one dark night, and the words still ring in Alec's chest like clear crystal. "I love you too," he rumbles out, and the relief on Paul's face - one day it won't be relief, just familiarity and faith - twists at his heart. He brushes his hand along Paul's tense jaw, thumb across his cheek, then pulls himself away.

When Paul comes back from the bathroom, he's still pale and his eyes are suspiciously red rimmed. "I'm going to have nightmares," he says abruptly. "I'll stay in the spare room tonight." He looks pissed off, and Alec feels his frustration; they'd both quietly hoped that seeing Jerry in prison would be enough to drive away the flashbacks and nightmares. Still, pissed off is better than terrified.

He doesn't argue; he knows these nights are hard, and Paul feels awkward about keeping him awake even when it's just standard insomnia, never mind whimpering nightmares. Instead, he slithers out of bed and pads on bare feet to where Paul stands listlessly in the doorway. He presses a kiss to the bloodless cheek and a second one to his neck, breathing in the scent of toothpaste and fresh fearsweat and _Paul_. "I'll be here if you change your mind." Scruff scrapes across scruff as Paul turns his head just enough to briefly catch their lips together.

Later, Alec lies alone in his empty bed, heart aching for the man he knows lies awake on the other side of the wall.

He's almost asleep when the soft squeak of the door handle nudges him out of his stupor, and the movement of the bed behind him makes him stir with a groan. "Y'alright?" he slurs out through sleep-numb lips.

"Can't sleep."

Alec snorts at that, but rolls over, squirming closer until he can curl around Paul's miserable comma of a frame, nose buried in the nape of his neck. "You n'ver sleep."

He feels Paul's hummed response through his arm, where it's slung over Paul's chest and pressed tight against a racing heart.

There will be nightmares, probably for both of them, but he doesn't mind. They're a small price to pay to have Paul by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm genuinely sad to post this final chapter. This story has meant a lot to me and the support I've had (particularly from Zeph and EJ, but also from some lovely comments) has been out-bloody-standing.
> 
> I'll almost certainly write more in this universe, I'll miss it too much not to.
> 
> Thank you.


End file.
